
Ifitifllf? 


Hmnm 

I timmi 


li iimmm 




iillii 


trtri 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap,...:,.., Cop^r^ht No, 

She lf 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


¥ 


{ 











TOSTLE FARM 


’POSTLE FARM 


BY. 

/ 

GEORGE FORD 

AUTHOR OF ‘the LARRAMYS,’ ETC. 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1899 

V 




0 "' 



43699 


Copyright^ 1S99, 

By Dodd, Mead and Company. 


TWO COPIES p 



ElVED. 



Braunworth, Munn & Barber, 

Printers and Bookbinders, 

i6 Nassau Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

/ 





TO 


Tins BOOK IS GRATEFULLY 
DEDICA TED. 


ft 

'■9 



POSTLE FARM 


' PROLOGUE. 

Two men stood together in the dark. The trees 
surged to and fro in the wailing autumn wind. 

“ Will you do this ? Yes or no?” 

“ Oh sir ! ’tis a cruel thing for ask ! ” 

“ Will you do it ? Yes or no ? ” 

“ Please, sir, give me time for think ! ” 

“ There is no time to give. Yes or no ? ” 

“Pve always loved ’ee, sir! But ain’t there no 
way out of it?” 

“None. I am in extremity? I want your help.” 
Then the other man trembled exceedingly. 

A 


CHAPTER I. 


Tostle Farm had gained its name, generations 
back, from the row of elm-trees that shadowed 
its thatched buildings. There were twelve of these 
elms, and in the neighbourhood they went by the 
name of the “ Twelve Apostles.’* 

When the walls of the farm were reared under 
their shelter, the place was called Apostle Farm ” ; 
and later the A was dropped, and Tostle Farm ” 
was its name, and few people knew or cared about 
its origin. 

These old time-honoured elms had stood the 
blast of many a winter wind, and blossomed when 
the springtime came, and spread out their green 
leaves to shelter the mating rooks. Some of the 
branches had grown and spread till they formed 
a second roof over the thatch one that sheltered 
the main building. 

There was something, on the whole, a wee bit 
bleak and forbidding in the place — though homely 
enough, doubtless, to any but Devonians. But to 
them it had a scant look, the fields being divided 


6 


’POSTLE FARM. 


by low stone walls instead of luxuriant hedges. 
The land lay on either side of a ridge of hills, 
along the steep sides of which even the constant 
rains of Devon could find no resting-place. Con- 
sequently, neither was there luxuriance of growth ; 
but the short grey grass was sweet, and sheep 
throve and fattened on it, and footrot was never 
known among the flocks. 

Very healthy it was, for man and beast, with 
the tidal river washing the western side of the 
ridge, bringing up the salt sea-breezes twice a-day, 
and the whiff of the brown seaweed. The grey 
walls of the farm were weather-beaten and bare. 
Not a creeper covered them : even the clinging 
ivy had forborne to turn to them for support. 
The old house stood like a Spartan chief, scorn- 
ing home ties, ready only to bear the brunt of 
the storm, and unimpressed by the wreathing sun- 
light. 

Some houses seem alive. They speak, they 
smile : they tell of love, and breathe of hope, and 
sing of happy lives within. Others neither speak 
nor smile : they are dumb. With finger on mouth, 
and cold eyes that will not see, and ears that will 
not hear, they raise their walls of impenetrable 
silence. And one tries to picture their inner life ; 
smiling faces, joyous voices, happy laughter. But 
no; one’s mind returns unto one void. 

Does one live there? Does any one laugh and 
sing there? 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


7 


So with ’Postle Farm. 

It was Sunday afternoon. Not a creature moved 
about. A [stranger wandering round might have 
supposed the plague had stricken the dwellers 
within, the cattle without, and not one remained. 

The sky was deep blue. The wood on the side 
of the hill was beginning to tremble with the first 
faint green of the larch. Here and there a patch 
of gorse blazed. High overhead the song of larks. 
At one’s feet a myriad daisies. 

Then suddenly over the brow of the hill came 
two children, skipping hand in hand. One was 
fair, with the dazzling pink-and-white complexion 
for which the county is famous. A pretty child : 
the child for whom one searches in one’s pocket 
for stray halfpence. The other had tawny locks 
growing in wild disorder, and brown eyes that 
flashed sunlight, like a limpid stream where the 
waters are deep. 

Hand in hand they came, and as they came they 
sang — 

“ There is an ol’ water-witch, 

And an evil eye has she ! 

She lives on grasses that grow in the ditch. 

And trips up children from school that mitch ; 

And that does she ! and that does she ! 

An’ mun calls her the Witch o’ Fammelsee!” 

Light and blithe of heart were they. If it rained, 
or the sun shone, it made no difference to them. 
Like the lilies, they toiled not, neither did they spin. 


8 


’POSTLE FARM. 


There was no occasion for them to take thought for 
the morrow ; the morrow took thought for itself. 

“‘There is an ol’ water-witch * 

How does’n go on?” asked Cathie, shaking back 
her thick hair. 

“Oh! don’t ’ee know? They took an’ sticked a 
bullock’s heart o’ pins, an’ ’er died 1 ” 

“ Us won’t ’ave that. Us’ll ’ave ’er was a-made a 
fine lady, wi’ dresses to clothey ’ersel’, an’ money, 
an’ servants for fend for her I ” 

“ But that ain’t the rights o’ it ! ” objected the 
matter-of-fact Bessie. 

“ Never mind the rights o’t. The rights o’t be 
just what I makk o’t! Us’ll ’ave daisy chains!” 
She finished suddenly, throwing herself on the grass. 

“ Do ’ee like heartseases?” inquired Bessie. 

“Ees; they be like faces — crowds o’ mun. An’ 
when the wind blow’th, ’tis like as if they was a- 
niddin’ an’ a-noddin’ to ’ee ! ” 

“ Go ’long ! Flowers can’t nid an’ nod to ’ee ! ” 

“ Fey they can ! ” 

“ You’m always speakin’ up ol’ rummage ! They 
can’t, and I shall ask mother whether mun can 
or no.” 

Cathie bent forward. 

“ Hark ! ” she cried, “ there’s Grandfer fiddlin’ ! ” 

“No ’e ain’t! ” said Bessie, whose duller ears the 
sound did not reach. “You’m always bearin’ what 
no other folks can’t ! ” 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


9 


Catherine started running, and Bessie got up 
slowly and followed her. She presently caught 
the sound of fiddling too, and the two children 
ran into the farmyard together. For a minute 
or two they could not make out from whence 
the sound came. Finally, Grandfer was discovered 
seated behind a water-butt, fiddling away to his 
heart’s content. 

The children began to dance. Brown locks and 
gold locks tossed in the still spring air in time 
to the movement of their nimble feet; their eyes 
sparkled, their colour heightened. Grandfer rose 
from behind the water-butt, still fiddling, and led 
the way through the farmyard, on to the hillside 
starred with daisies. And after him the children 
came dancing. 

Then at last he drew his bow with a crash 
across the strings, and the children threw them- 
selves breathless and laughing on the ground. 

Grandfer was a fine-featured blue-eyed old man, 
somewhat shrunken now, but tall still. He looked 
at the children as they lay panting on the grass. 
But his eye rested longer on the taller, darker girl ; 
the fair blue-eyed Bessie was only a neighbour’s 
child. Indeed Cathie drew the eye always, no 
matter whether you were kith and kin to her 
or not. She commanded attention like flashes of 
lightning. 

The old man sat down beside the children. The 
sun was setting now behind the opposite ridge of 


lO 


’POSTLE FARM. 


hills, leaving a path of ruddy gold across the full 
bosom of the river. It caught the upper turrets 
of Upcott Hall standing embowered in trees, and 
wrapped for the greater part in impenetrable 
gloom. 

Then the sun set, and the grey twilight fell 
upon the lonely hills like a sigh — half sad, half 
satisfied. Grandfer rose and turned homewards. 
Cathie, wearied with her dancing, hung on to his 
coat-tails, and Bessie limped fretfully behind. She 
had got a pebble in her shoe, and discarded Cathie’s 
practical advice to “ tak’n out an* ’ave done wi * it ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 


“ The me-aid dances zame as eef ^er were possessed- 
like ! ” said Grandfer, as he sat before the fire smok- 
ing his evening pipe. ’Tis amazin’ vor zee ’er ! ” 

Near him sat his daughter hushing her child to 
sleep. She was a sad-eyed delicate-looking woman, 
with a mass of pale red hair. Opposite sat Miah, 
his son-in-law, a coarse, large man, with a fair com- 
plexion, which the sun and the wind, and large 
potions of home-brewed ale, had turned to a dis- 
agreeable brick-red. 

’Er zeem’th mortal queer, any gait,” he answered 
slowly, taking the pipe from his mouth and spitting 
copiously on the hearthstone. Mollard telled me ’e 
meet ’er up nine o’clock — or zome after — right 
agin the churchyard, an’ the ’ead-stones a-showin’ 
up white, an’ ’er makkin’ not a bit o’ differ’nce — 
zame’s if ’er was i’ broad daylight an’ the hens a- 
cacklin’, instead o’ foggy moonlight an’ the owls a- 
hootin’ ! ” 

“ Wheer bey ’er now? ” inquired Grandfer, turning 
to his daughter Annie. 


12 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Out an* ’bout,” the woman answered wearily ; 
“ ’er won’t be kep’ in ! ” 

“ ’Er tak’s after Liza, don’t ’er? ” inquired Miah. 
‘*’Er was a gad-about. I’ve yert tell.” 

He narrowed his eyes disagreeably, and Grandfer 
moved uneasily. 

Liza was a honest me-aid,” he murmured — a 
honest me-aid.” 

He got up presently and reached his hat down 
from behind the door. 

“ Where be gwin, vather? ” his daughter asked. 

Vor vind the little me-aid. ’Er didn’t ought vor 
bey a-brooard these time o’ night.” 

The woman sighed. 

** ’Er will be,” she said ; “ ’er will do as ’er’s minded 
to.” 

Grandfer went out, and the door slammed heavily 
to behind him. 

There was silence in the kitchen save for the slow 
creak of the rocking-chair as the sad-eyed woman 
hushed the child to sleep. Presently she ceased 
rocking and opened out her arm. The little heavy 
head fell back ; the tired limbs relaxed. The child 
was sleeping. 

** Us ought for kill the pig this week,” said Miah. 

The woman did not answer. She stirred the 
child’s curls lightly with her thin fingers. 

Do ’ee ’ear? ” 

‘‘ I’ve a-got they spasms so bad again,” the 
woman said faintly. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 1 3 

'' You an’ yer spasms ! ” the man answered scorn- 
fully. 

“ ’Tis ’eavy work liftin’ o” the slabs.” 

'‘Ye an’t got no ’eart to it, that what it be ! If it 
weren’t for ’ee,” nodding at Grandfer’s empty chair, 
“ I’d knock the nonsense out o’ ’ee ! ” 

The woman made no answer; not even silent 
tears welled into her eyes. Her tears lay in a deep 
frozen well. Kind words might bring them — but 
only to wash over the surface an instant, and be 
frozen like the rest. 

She sat silent, her eyes wandering from the fire to 
the child, from the child to the fire. And ever 
when they came back to the child, a ray of subdued 
joy shot from them, like pale wintry sunlight 
through yellow leaves. 

He was a picture of a child ! Fair curls clustered 
— now with a healthy dampness — round the temple ; 
long lashes swept the soft pink cheek ; the red lips 
were parted. The mother raised him gently and 
placed him in the cot. The beautiful, round, 
white, dimpled limbs sank on to the pillow, and 
there was not so much as the quiver of an 
eyelid. The mother’s touch had left him sleeping 
still. 

The clock struck nine, — nine long wheezy strokes. 
Grandfer’s step came over the yard, and with it the 
dancing steps of Cathie, like a peal of merry bells 
beside a tolling one. 

“ Go now, ma-deear, toy bade,” he said as they 


14 


’POSTLE FARM. 


entered, an* dun ’ee go vor wander night-times. 
The pexies ’ll ’ave ’ee ! ” 

yert mun laughin’ as I come over ’ill to- 
night,” she answered. 

“ Ay, ay, they bey wide wak’. I mind when my 
gild woman was a-livin’ an’ I went out dade o’ night, 
they ’emmed me een’s ’igher fiel’ zo’s I ciidd’n get 
out no ways ’vore I vixed my determination like, 
an’ went over ’idge.” 

Bain’ ’ee bootiful?” said Cathie, bending over the 
cradle. 

“ Catch ’old to ’andle, Cathie, will ’ee,” said Annie 
wearily, “an’ ’elp me up over stairs wi’ un?” 

Panting, and often pausing for breath, the woman 
led the way, till Cathie suddenly caught the cradle 
in her strong young arms and ran up the remainder 
of the stairs alone, looking down from the top and 
laughing. The lamp Annie carried threw Cathie’s 
face into strong light and heavy shadow, till she 
might have been a laughing pixie caught fresh from 
the moorland. 

“ Oh ! my God ! ” the woman said, with her hand 
pressed against her side, “what would I give for 
strength likey that ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 


One wet cold evening in the early part of April 
Grandfer took down his fiddle, and calling Cathie, 
he cried — 

“ Now ril tache 'ee vor viddle.” 

She came running, her brown eyes sparkling. 

I played a tune t’other day, didn’t I ? ” she cried, 
appealing to her aunt and eagerly taking the bow 
the old man held out to her. 

As one well accustomed to handle the instrument, 
she tucked it under her chin and balanced the bow 
as Grandfer had taught her to as soon as she was 
old enough to hold it steadily. 

“ Play’n ! ” the old man said. Let’s yer’n.” 

Standing up before the great fireplace, with the 
flickering flames now revealing her, now casting 
tender shadows over her, as if they almost dreaded 
to reveal her dawning beauty, Cathie drew the bow 
with a masterly touch across the strings of the 
instrument. 

Then she played. 

And Grandfer listened, and Annie swallowed 


i6 


’POSTLE FARM. 


the lump that rose in her throat, and thought 
of her girlhood, and the lover that the sea had 
swallowed, and the golden dream that had melted 
away long ago, giving place to the hard realities 
of life. 

The old familiar melody rose and fell. It 
was different playing altogether from Grandfer’s. 
It was all heart, all sobs and sighs, and tears 
and smiles. 

And Grandfer, listening, groaned beneath his 
breath. 

“ Loord, what a drop o’t ’ll doy ! ” Then, “ ’Ow 
doy ’ee doy’t, ma-deear? Tes amazin’. Danceth 
an’ play’th zo as never was ! Grandfer ’d bes’ 
geeve over viddlin’ now. My vingers b’ain’t zo 
lithsome as they was, nether. Age overtak’s ’ee, 
an’ laves ’ee no manner o’ use — no manner o’ use 
at all ! ” 

Cathie dropped on her knees beside the old man’s 
chair. The flame flashed up and showed tears in 
her eyes. 

“ I shan’t never touch the ol’ fiddle more ! ” she 
said. “ Sinth ’e mak’s ’ee feel bad, I won’t never 
handle un more ! ” 

** God bless ’ee I ’er’s that warm-’earted ! ” the old 
man said, gazing at her with an expression almost 
of awe and reverence. “ Dear heart ! dear heart ! ” 
he murmured, “ what a cruel wecked contrairy world 
it bey ! ” 

“Vor why then?” she asked. Because I can 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 1 7 

fiddle? Because I can dance? Play now, Grandfer, 
an’ see me foot it ! ” 

Thus beguiled, the old man took up his fiddle 
with lingering loving fingers. Content came back 
to him, and his eyes sparkled as he watched Cathie 
twirling on the hearth to the sound of his merry 

jig- 


CHAPTER IV. 


Content, however, was destined not to stay long 
with Grandfer. 

He was an upright and honourable old man, 
and when he got to the silence of his chamber 
that night he began to think instead of dropping 
into his usual wholesome sleep. 

He tossed from side to side of the bed ; he mur- 
mured prayers ; even the Bible underneath his pillow 
seemed unable to protect him. 

At last he started up in bed, and beads of per- 
spiration burst upon his brow. 

“ Oh ! Loord, I’ll zee toy’t ! ” he cried. “ I’ll 
mak’ it all zo plain’s a pikestaff, Loord, eef ’e’ll 
only tak’ off these unaisiness ! ” 

After that he lay quiet, and in a little while 
fell asleep. 

The next morning, after breakfast, he put on 
all his best clothes. 

“ Where be gwin, vather ? ” inquired Annie. “ ’ Ave 
’ee mistook the day ? ’Tain’t Saturday ! ” 


THE DARKEST HOUR. I9 

“I knows, I knows! Business I’ve a-got what 
’ll tak’ me away a hour or two.” 

He went into the yard, and drove out with Polly 
in the springcart. 

“ What be ’e after ? ” said Miah to himself. 

Then, with a sudden thought, he put bridle on the 
other mare and rode out after Grandfer. 

He rode cautiously. He did not wish to be seen. 

Grandfer drove along unconscious that he was 
followed. 

At length they reached the hill leading into 
the town, and Grandfer proceeded, and crossed the 
river by the bridge. 

But Miah drew rein on the bank and watched. 
Polly’s white side was a good mark. He observed 
Grandfer jogging along on the opposite bank of the 
river, and kept him carefully in view until he turned 
off beneath an ivied gateway. 

“ Ah 1 ” said Miah, and there was knowledge, 
satisfaction, and cunning in his tone. He rode 
home in a brown-study. 

When Cathie came in from school that afternoon 
Grandfer called her. 

“ Ma-deear,” he said, “ nextest market day I’ll a- 
tak’ ’ee along wi’ me, eef ’ee be a good me-aid ! 
Will ’ee like vor come } ” 

Cathie clapped her hands. 

“ Oh, Grandfer, I will be ever so good ! ” she cried. 
“ An’ will ’ee let me drive Polly up the ’ills ? ” 

“ Ees, ees, ma-deear, eef ’ee’m gud me-aid !’' 


20 


’POSTLI /ARM. 


“ It’ll be takkin’ of ’er away from ’er schoolin’,” 
said Miah. “ When ’er ’ve a-passed ’er standards, ’er 
can bide ’long o’ Annie for help.” 

‘‘ Never you mind the standards once in a way. 
The me-aid be sharp ’nough to outstrip mun all.” 

What they learns is A B C,” said Cathie, twirling 
round and round in the middle of the kitchen. 
“Gome’s that easy!” 

“ ’Er bey a brave scholard!” said Grandfer proudly, 
and looking at Miah. “A day off don’t mak’ no 
manner o’ differ’nce to ’er. Do’t, ma-deear?” 

“ No,” said Cathie. “ I know my g’ography 
wi’out a stop ; ” and she began to repeat at a 
great rate all the chief towns in Europe. 

“ Look to thiccy ! ” cried Grandfer ; “ ’tis amazin’ ! ” 

“’Tis,” said Miah, turning his narrow eyes on 
Grandfer. “ Wheer do ’er get it from ? ” 

“ Ah 1 the Loord’s won’erful ’andy distri-butin’ o’ 
brains,” said Grandfer ; “ ’tis as aisy for’n to put 
mun one ple-ace as another.” 

“ I reckon they’m forced for come accordin’ to. 
When I tills they early tetties, I don’t ordain for 
gather kidney beans. So far’s I can mind, Liza 
’adn’t no more brain nor a rabbit.” 

“ Ah, but ’ee never zeed ’er ’usband I ” 

“Nor nobody else,” said Miah. 

Grandfer was walking towards the door, but he 
wheeled round at this. 

“ Look ’ee ’ere ! I’m lusty yet 1” he cried. “ None 
o’ your imperence under these roof ! ” 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


21 


Miah muttered sulkily that he had meant none. 
In spite of his weight and strength he was a coward. 

“ Mind ’ee self, then !” said Grandfer, “or I’ll ’ave 
’ee out o’ doo-or!” 

The colour was high in the old man’s cheek. His 
fingers twitched nervously. 

“ For love o’ God, vather, keep qui^t ! ” said Annie, 
trembling. 

“ Vor love o’ God nor no man will I stan’ by an’ 
zee muck drowed over the dead ! The dead can’t 
spake vor theirselves ; but ’ere’s a man,” and here 
Grandfer tapped the chest that had once been broad 
and full, — “’ere’s a man, I zay, as can spake vor’n. 
Liza was a good honest me-aid, an’ the man as zays 
other ’ll ’ave to pay the price o’ ’is words to me ! ” 

So saying, the old man turned away; but when 
he reached the door, he looked back and fixed his 
flashing eye on Miah. Righteous indignation gives 
a marvellous dignity to the human form. Even 
where the form is poor and deformed, it becomes 
in such a moment possessed of beauty. Grandfer 
had been a fine and handsome figure in his day: 
in this brief instant, youth came back once more 
through the worn-out frame. 

How easy to picture eternal youth hereafter, 
when even here we can assume it for one beautiful 
instant, — when the mind shines out through the 
frail casket, revealing the eternal jewel within I 


CHAPTER V. 


When market morning came, Cathie could scarcely 
restrain her excited delight. As she mounted to 
Grandfer’s side, and settled herself while old Polly 
moved slowly out of the yard, the beautiful little 
face was wreathed in smiles. 

Polly, though a reliable mare in the collar, was 
not fast, and their progress along the highroad to 
Upcott was therefore slow. But to the child it was 
not wearisome : the rattle of the other carts that 
overtook them, the cheery cries of “ Hornin’, Master 
Tythycott ! ” as the neighbours jogged past them, 
filled her with the sense of a wonderful workaday 
world, where Master Tythycott was, after all, only a 
unit. 

They reached Upcott— all too soon for the child’s 
fancy — and Polly was tied up in the same box with 
half-a-dozen other amiable mares, and the cart was 
run back to the side of the road, with shafts in air, 
to make the more room for others. 

Then Grandfer began to make his progress to- 
wards the market inn. But every other person he 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


23 


encountered was “ Hail fellow well met ! ” Now 
and again he met an old friend, and then the two 
old cronies would stand together, shaking heads 
and cracking jokes, till a sense of duty would strike 
one or other of them, and he would say, “ Well, us 
mus’ be movin’ ’long ! Mak’ ’aste while the sun 
shin’th, as the proverb ’ath it ! ” And winking their 
blue eyes, and mirth glowing in their apple cheeks, 
they would pass away from each other, making half 
a million nods to the minute. 

“Come, ma-deear! come ’long!” said Grandfer 
at last, as if it had been the child who had loitered 
and gossiped, — “come ’long now! come ’long! Us 
mus’n bide so long about!” and he led the way 
into the “Long Eider Inn.” 

Presumably this inn was called “ Long Eider ” 
because people were supposed to be so comfortable 
when they once got inside that they could not get 
out again ! 

Grandfer led the way into a little beery parlour, 
where the heads of the people passing to and fro on 
the other side of the wire window-blind made Cathie 
quite giddy. Here he seated himself, and anxiously 
waited ; and presently a friend arrived. 

They shook hands, — not jovially, but seriously, as 
men who have a heavy duty to perform. 

The friend was an old, white-haired, wizened man 
in black clothes. He turned slowly — after he and 
Grandfer had been shaking hands with each other 
a long minute without speaking — evidently for the 


24 


'POSTLE FARM. 


purpose of observing the child. Cathie sat on the 
window-sill. Her attitude had the graceful modesty 
of a child unaccustomed to meeting strangers, but 
her dark eyes glowed courageously as they met 
the new-comer’s. The stale smell of the carpets 
and curtains had turned her pale. A glance was 
sufficient for him. 

“ For God’s sake ! ” he cried, and he began to 
tremble violently. 

The child heard and wondered. 

“’Tain’t zo notticeable when ’er’s coloured up 
like,” said Grandfer behind his hand. “ ’Er bey that 
faint to ’er stomick, ’er turns away like that zo zoon 
as ’er bey wheer it might ’appen be bit fusty-like.” 

“ The Lord have mercy on us ! ” was all the old 
man said again ; and he heaved a shuddering sigh, 
and shambled towards the door, which he held open 
wide, allowing the child to pass through first. 

The three of them proceeded up Market Street, 
and presently down into a wider and quieter 
thoroughfare. 

“There ’tisl” said Cathie, pointing opposite to 
a brass plate on which was written— 

“ Messrs Thimberley and Makepeacey 
Solicitors^ 

She had caught the names as the two old men 
walked forward in close conversation. Grandfer 
started. Then he turned to his companion, “ ’Er 
be zo bright as a button ! ” he exclaimed. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


25 


“Clidd’n bey no other,” answered the other, and 
they stopped at the brass plate and rang the bell. 

“ Oh, Grandfer, let me ring the bell ! ” cried the 
child, springing forward. But she was too late. 

Her face clouded ; but just as she was thinking 
whether she would not pout over it, she caught the 
stranger’s eye. She broke into a little sunny laugh, 
and hid behind her grandfather’s coat-sleeve. 

The pale blue eyes of the little old man suffused 
with tears. 

“Grandfer, what be us gwin in ’ere fer.^” asked 
Cathie, as they waited. 

“ Hush, ma-deear ! ” said Grandfer. 

Then the office-boy opened the door, and they 
were shown into a room with two high counting- 
desks, over the rails of which two young men 
regarded them with curiosity, until the lawyer 
appeared at the door of an adjoining room, when 
they instantly became absorbed in their work, and 
the scratching of their pens filled the silence. 

The lawyer beckoned them into the inner room, 
indicated chairs with a wave of the hand, seated 
himself, and asked — 

“Now, what can I do for you?” 

Grandfer, who was sitting with Cathie between 
his knees, looked nervously towards his old white- 
haired friend ; but the latter’s agitation was so ex- 
treme that he could not sufficiently command his 
voice to speak. 

The lawyer sat gnawing the tip of his thumb, and 


26 


'POSTLE FARM. 


looking from one to the other with his narrow 
dancing eyes. 

Then the old white-haired man controlled himself. 

“ If you please, sir,” he said, edging his chair a 
little nearer to the lawyer, — “ if you please, sir — 
of course, .sir, I understand, sir, nothing that us 
speaks now will go any further, sir ? ” 

The lawyer took his thumb from his mouth an 
instant. 

Certainly not,” he said. “ We treat all our busi- 
ness as strictly confidential.” 

The two old men hummed and hawed, and 
looked at each other with painful indecision. The 
lawyer gnawed his thumb. 

“ Us wants to make a kind of statement,” at last 
the little old man in black clothes said. “Us wants 
to say something in black and white writ in clerkly 
’and, and sealed with the seal in a proper manner, 
and us wants to sign it, both on us, and the little 
maid to sign it too. Now, would that be proper 
legal?” 

“ What is the statement you wish to make ? ” 
inquired the lawyer. 

Again the two old men looked at each other 
helplessly. 

“ Mebbe,” said Grandfer, on whose cheek a bright 
pink spot now burned, — “mebbe,” appealing to his 
old friend — “ mebbe us ’ud bes’ ways leave it vor 
'nother market?” 

“No time like the present,” said the lawyer. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


27 


**If you please, sir, beggin’ your pardon, is Mr 
Thimberley to home?” 

“Well, I’m Mr Makepeace, you know, and it’s 
generally I that am wanted,” said the lawyer, with 
a twinkle in his eye. 

“ Mr Thimberley, sir. I’ve known for many years,” 
said the little man pathetically. 

“You can see him, of course,” replied Mr Make- 
peace, and as he touched the bell sharply at his 
side he gnawed his thumb a little harder. These 
old men had roused his curiosity. 

“ Clients for Mr Thimberley as soon as he is dis- 
engaged,” he said to the office-boy who answered 
the summons. 

Then these three country people, the two agitated 
old men and the child with her dark eyes fixed 
observantly first on one and then on the other, 
were shown into Mr Thimberley’s office. 

Mr Thimberley was an immense broad-shouldered 
man, with one of those inscrutable faces which some 
people interpreted into downright honest implac- 
able virtue, and others into unprincipled bare- 
faced roguery. 

The little man was at home here at once. 

He fell on his knees, and caught the lawyer’s 
hands between his own. 

“ Oh, sir ! ” he said, his teeth chattering, “ these 
’ere business be mortal confident ! ” 

“It is safe with me,” the lawyer answered. 

“ Safe, sir ? Safe as God’s sinners in hell ? ” 


2 $ 


POSTLE FARM. 


“ Yes, yes,” the lawyer replied, a little impa- 
tiently, and taking out his watch. 

“Us wants to write it out ’ere, sir ; and there won’t 
be no ’casion for you to know the precise nature of 
the letterin’, sir ; but us’ll write it, and you’ll testify 
us ’ave a-wrote it, an’ sign your name to it, sir. Us 
wants to put that on our deathbeds ; and, before God 
Almighty, us swear to the truth o’ these words — 
that they be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
but the truth ! ” 

The lawyer glanced again at his watch. 

“You should have written it all out at home,” 
he said. “You’d better go to an inn and write it, 
and come back again.” 

“For the love of heaven,” said the little man, 
“ let us write it all here ! Why, one or t’other of 
us might be struck down with death ’fore us got 
back — or a sheet o’ the paper might drop out of 
hand — or — oh ! if you’ve pity in your heart, sir, 
let us now, while God’s a-rappin' at our hearts — 
his’n and mine,” pointing to Grandfer — “ let us write 
it, and do our little part for rem’dy the evil ! ” 

“ H’m,” said Mr Thimberley ; “well, it’s just my 
luncheon -time, so if you look sharp about it you 
can use this room. Here’s paper and pen,” and 
he went out. 

Then the two old men began slowly and labo- 
riously making out their statement. They did it 
whispering, so that the child, all attention, all wake- 
ful curiosity, though she was, could gather nothing. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


29 


She sat where she was bidden, on a high stool 
at the farther end of the dingy little room — an 
important factor in the case, entirely ignorant that 
the whole course of her life was being decided in 
this musty apartment, into which she had never 
entered before and never would again. 

The clock ticked on the mantelpiece, the pen 
scratched laboriously over the paper, sometimes 
with long pauses, and from time to time the old 
men’s whispers murmured through the oppressive 
air. Mr Thimberley returned. There were more 
whisperings. And at last the little one lost interest 
in it all, and swung her legs to and fro, and thought 
of dinner and shops and the drive home again. 

And all the while, with every scratch in the parch- 
ment, angels were guarding her; and who is to say, 
as the three came slowly out of the lawyer’s office, 
their work accomplished, there was not joy in 
heaven ? Is not the eternal design, which has stood 
from the foundation of the world. Justice? 


CHAPTER VI. 


When Polly came ambling into the yard three 
hours later, Miah was there waiting. He un- 
harnessed the mare while Grandfer went in to take 
off his best coat. 

“Bide ’ere,” he said to Cathie, who was running 
in joyfully to tell Annie all about everything. “ ’Old 
the shafties. Get up, Polly! Where did ’ee go 
’long o’ Grandfer.?” 

“Us went all up Market Street, an’ I seed in’s 
shop-windies. In one windy there was trumpets 
an’ fiddles, an’, my ! such a sight o’ books, an* 
’underds o’ ” 

“Did Grandfer speak along o’ any one.?” inter- 
rupted Miah. “ Bide a minute now, can’t ’ee, ’gainst 
I tak’ out the packages I Did Grandfer tak’ ’ee 
anywheres .? ” 

“ Us went into market. Oh, an’ us went into 
’torney’s, and Granfer an’ ’nother ol’ nian an’ Mr 
Thimberley did a sight o’ writin’l” 

“ What did mun write .? ” asked Miah, dropping 
one of the parcels in his eagerness. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


3 


“ 1 don’t know,” said the child, whirling round 
on one of her restless little feet, and taking a bite 
out of a large juicy apple. 

Miah caught her arm roughly, and the apple fell 
rolling in the mud. 

“There now!” said Cathie, “ ’ee’ve a-spoiled my 
apple, you ol’ toad ! ’Ee was a sweet un, to I I 
shan’t tell ’ee nothin’ more, no more I won’t.” 

She picked up the apple and regarded it rue- 
fully. 

“ That b’ain’t hurted nothin’,” said Miah. 

“ The pigs can ’ave it ! ” she answered, throwing 
it into the sty. “ I ain’t gwin for bite on muck I ” 

“ I’ll give ’ee a penny if ’ee can mind what ’torney 
said,” said Miah, bending his beery face close to 
her. “You’m such a clever little maid, I’m certain 
sure ’ee’ll mind it.” 

“ I can’t then, so there 1 Bring in the old pack- 
ages yerself I ” 

She ran into the house. 

“ ’Tis ’er wickedness ! ” said Miah. “ ’Er sees 

I want for know, so ’er keeps it close ! I knows 
one thing — they went to the ’torney’s ; so there’s 
some’at afoot, for sure 1 ” 

He turned to the mare and kicked her in the ribs 
because she was thirsty and drinking longer than 
his patience could stand. 

“ I’ll get to know the rights o’t if I die for’t,” he 
said, as he led the mare into the stable. 

To find out “the rights” of a thing is, however, 


32 


’POSTLE FARM. 


not easy where ignorance and dignified reserve are 
the only two fortresses to be attacked. 

Miah felt sure it was something to do with money, 
but beyond this he could not get. He was not 
clever, only exceedingly avaricious ; and though 
avarice may accomplish much, brains accomplish 
more. 

As time passed, and nothing further transpired 
to awaken his suspicion or interest, the circum- 
stances that had at first done so sank into a dim 
perspective. Yet at times he still wondered, and 
on these occasions he revived himself with the 
thought that Grandfer would be sure to become 
voluble as he grew older. 

Then Miah’s opportunity would come. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A YEAR passed. Seedtime and harvest had fol- 
lowed each other, and the early and the latter rain, 
with the old time-worn regularity. Life at Tostle 
Farm, like the life on its steep ridges, followed 
its ordinary course, with but little variation. 

Only the child Cathie was taller, and something 
of dreamland crept into her eyes ; where she had 
once danced, she paced with slow and thoughtful 
air; a new world was beginning to slowly open 
for her. 

One afternoon she came home from school swing- 
ing her satchel in her hand. The melody of the 
spring afternoon was in all her being. The west- 
ern sun had crept low towards the opposite hill, 
and the side of the farm towards her was in deep 
shadow. 

The rooks were calling from their nests high up 
in the elm trees, and an occasional seagull wheeled 
upward from the river. 

Cathie loved the elms. Her favourite strolling 
ground was underneath their shadows, where the 
C 


34 


’POSTLE FARM. 


droppings from the boughs had worn away the 
grass, and the long knotted roots had sucked up 
the moisture, and left a dry beaten track for her 
light footfall. Here she played — more rarely now 
— that the great arching branches were the roof 
of her “ hall,” and the hollows and the worn places 
where the rabbits ran — and the gnarled roots — form- 
ing themselves into squares and triangles — were 
her “rooms.” Odd bits of crockery, ranged in 
rows, were her china - shop ; here, where the red 
earth dipped, and a twisted root ran in a half 
circle, was her armchair. She and Bessie had 
named them all; or rather, she had named them, 
and Bessie had acquiesced. 

On this spring afternoon Cathie came sauntering 
slowly forward in her white pinafore and her kitty- 
bonnet. She was in no hurry to enter the farm- 
house, having had her tea with Bessie Mollard 
on her way home from school. So she hung up 
her satchel on a low-reaching arm of St Matthew, 
and amused herself rearranging her china - shop. 
But she soon got tired of this. Taking off her 
sun-bonnet, she tied it to the satchel, and sauntered 
down the hill to the river. The tide was out. A 
group of seagulls stood motionless on the purple 
sand, looking from a distance like a patch of last 
winter’s snow. The child sat down on the bank 
and watched them. Presently they rose in slow 
flight, and she rose too and began searching for 
birds’ nests along the lower hedges. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


35 


And presently the tide began to creep up ; and 
where the salt water met the fresh, it eddied into 
whirlpools. This resistance over, a great volume of 
water came like a marching regiment of soldiers, 
bearing all before it. The water swirled and 
whirled, and licked the sandbanks till they crum- 
bled into little pieces and fell with splashes in the 
tide. And the child stood and watched, and let 
the water swirl to her feet, jumping back with a 
little scream of laughter, and putting in pieces of 
stick, and clapping her hands when the tide whirled 
them away. 

A young man from the opposite side called out, 
“Take care! Take care of the current!” but she 
took no heed. Presently, with the incoming tide 
came a drifting mist. It crept up the valley till 
it reached the child ; and she held up her little 
face to it, and it lay in a myriad beads upon her 
cheeks and in tears upon her eyes. It and the 
wind together caught her soft hair and curved it 
into tendrils that clung about her brow. She looked 
like a spirit of the driving mist as she opened her 
clear-cut lips like a scarlet goblet and showed her 
ivory teeth and laughed, as she shut her eyes to 
keep the rain out. But when she opened her eyes, 
they were such beautiful human eyes that she did 
not look like a spirit at all, but a happy child. 

The shadows of evening fell upon the lonely 
hillside, and Cathie turned slowly homewards. The 
rain beat so fast now that she walked quickly. 


36 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Half-way up the hill she paused, and, tossing the 
wet hair from her eyes, looked down on the brim- 
ming river. As she looked, her eyes dilated ; she 
bent forward with a little cry. So wide open and 
fixed was her gaze, that a night-owl skimming by 
her did not cause it to flicker for an instant. She 
stood transfixed, as one seeing much, but terrified 
to see more. 

In the farm kitchen they had taken their seats 
at the supper-table, when the door burst open and 
Cathie rushed in. Her face was pale, her eyes 
were wide open, her wet hair clung to her face. 

Annie started to her feet, her hand pressed to 
her heart. 

“ Why, chir, how you skeered me ! ” she faltered. 

Cathie took no notice. She ran to her grand- 
father and hid her face upon his shoulder. 

“ Theer now, my little me - aid ! ” he said, ten- 
derly stroking the wet curls and wondering what 
ailed her. 

With her arms still clinging round his neck, she 
raised her face. 

“Grandfer,” she whispered, “ Grandfer, I zeed — 
I zeed — her!'* 

At these words each one of her listeners paled. 

“The little devil, wi’ they blarmed eyes o’ hern, 
always means some’at onlucky!” growled Miah at 
last. 

He looked savagely at the child. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


37 


“ Go 'long wi’ yer ol' rummage ! ” said Grandfer 
angrily. “Tis the mist the chil' zeed. That’s 
what 'twas, right 'nough. T’ won't 'arm my little 
beauty,” he said, kissing her. 

“It makks me feared,” she whimpered. 

“ I’d mak’ ’ee feared for a better cause if I ’ad 
the rearin’ of ’ee ! ” Miah said beneath his breath, 
as he rose abruptly from the table. 

“You be qui’t,” said the child, waking up from 
her terror and speaking like a little spitfire. 
“Grandfer, tell’n for ’old his tongue.” 

Grandfer laughed delightedly. 

“Bless the chil’,” he said, “’er’s cornin' to ’erself! 
’Ere, give 'er some’at vor eat — 'er’s clemmed wi' 
hunger.” 

Annie cut a thick slice from the loaf, and as 
she placed it before her she bent over, saying in 
an undertone, while her despairing eyes searched 
the little sunny face, “’Ee didn’t zee it vor zure, 
Cathie ? ” 

And Cathie answered, “’Tis so warm an’ snug 
an’ quietsome ’ere, ’appen I didn’t. Grandfer, shall 
I ask ’ee a riddle.?” 

“ No, no, ma-deear. ’Ee’ve mos’ skeered the life 
out o’ your aunt. Come ’long to bade, an’ don’t 
put 'ee mind to voolishness.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


When Cathie woke the next morning she romped 
in bed as usual with her aunt’s little golden-haired 
boy, till his mother came up to dress him. Cathie 
had often begged to be allowed to do this, but the 
mother’s love for the child was so great she could 
not bear any one to share in the trouble of him. 
She was pleased for Cathie to play with him ; but 
to care for him, to bathe and dress him, to hush 
him when he cried, was her part : and in this she 
would brook no rival. 

As Cathie washed and dressed herself in the 
room that seemed so quiet now Willie was gone, 
she grew thoughtful. She always took a consider- 
able time dressing, and Willie was asleep in his 
crib, and her aunt frying bacon for breakfast, by 
the time she came downstairs. 

She looked so fresh and dainty with her soft 
glossy hair tied back, and in her clean frilled pina- 
fore ! Many a heart in rich childless homes might 
well have ached to claim her. 

She came slowly forward and began to hang about 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


39 


her aunt, till twice Annie almost tripped over her, 
and finally nearly ran into her with a boiling kettle. 

‘*Do ’ee mind ’eeself!” she cried, silent and patient 
though she usually was, stung suddenly into sharp 
speech in spite of herself. “What bey doin’ of? 
You’m right under my feet ever since ’ee corned 
down, an’ I just upon come for upset this ’ere boil- 
hot kettle o’ watter over ’ee. Why can’t ’ee eo 
’long?” 

Cathie moved back ; but presently she was 
edging back to her aunt’s side again. Annie, 
turning suddenly with the frying-pan in her hand, 
only just saved herself from burning the child by 
a sudden movement which sent some of the hissing 
fat over on to the clean flagging. 

“ ’Pon my soul, Cathie, I’ll skat ’ee in a minute I 
I will, for sure ! Go ’long an’ sit down on thiccy 
chair till I tell ’ee to move.” 

“ I’ve got some’at for say to ’ee, Aunt Annie,” 
said Cathie, looking at her aunt with a troubled 
expression. “ I feel that bad about Willie.” 

“Willie!” said the mother, with a quick glance 
towards the cradle. “What’s wrong wi’ un?” 

She put down the frying-pan and bent over the 
cradle. 

“ He’s right now,” said Cathie ; “ but — oh, auntie ! 
— I zeed the Shinin’ Lady, an’ Miah saith whenever 
I zee ’er it be onlucky I ” 

Annie shoved her off with her elbow and shud- 
dered. 


40 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ Crazy maid you be,” she said. “ Mak’ haste an* 
sit down to your breaksus ; you’ll be late for school 
else ! ” 

Cathie appeared only half satisfied. She threw 
off her fear with an effort, and sat down to breakfast. 
When her breakfast was over, she went to put on 
her kitty- bonnet and to unhang her satchel from 
the hook behind the door. She seemed to have 
quite recovered her spirits, until she found both 
her bonnet and her satchel missing. Then she 
remembered she had left them hanging on the 
arm of the first Apostle. With this recollection 
came back the memory of her walk in the dusk 
and the rain. 

“ I’ll bide home ’long o’ Willie,” she said, suddenly 
turning to Annie ; then, catching sight of Willie 
awakening from his sleep, she ran to the cradle, 
and brown curls and yellow curls got all mixed 
up together, and the baby screamed and gurgled 
with delight, and held on to Cathie’s hair so tight 
that she could not get away. And Annie’s face 
relaxed, and she smiled down on them. 

But presently she urged Cathie again to fetch 
her bonnet and her satchel and to start for school. 

“I’ve a -got vor put my bootses on,” said the 
child, and she drew a little stool to the fire and 
sat down on it. 

She was always given to sudden day-dreaming, 
and as she sat in her stockinged feet and began 
to loosen the laces in her boots, her eye fell on 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


41 


the dancing flames, and she dropped the boot on 
her lap, and sat staring into the fire. 

It attracted her aunt’s attention. 

“What be gawkin’ at?” she asked. 

But the child did not hear. 

Annie looked at her a moment and shuddered. 
Then, coming quietly to the fire, .she turned the 
top log, bottom side up, murmuring, “The Lord 
be wi’ us ! ” 

“Oh, auntie! ’ee’ve a-spoiled my pictur’l” cried 
Cathie. 

At the same moment a piece of coal popped out 
on to the middle of the flagging. 

“ There’s a coffin ! ” cried Cathie, moving back 
quickly. 

“What do ’ee gawk ’m’s vire vor?” said Annie 
testily. Then she sat down, for the strength had 
gone out of her. 

Cathie did not observe her aunt’s agitation. 
She laced her boots and sprang to her feet. 

“ Don’t let Willie out, auntie, Vore I come back, 
an’ I’ll tak’ un out vor gather lent-roses — shall I, 
Willie? Wull ’ee come ’long Cathie?” 

She bent down and put her arms round him, as 
he stood beating a tattoo against the door with his 
fat little fists. 

He stretched out his arms to her as she sprang 
over the board placed at the door to keep him in. 

“Not now!” cried Cathie, “When I come back 
along ! ” 


42 


'POSTLE FARM. 


The child cried after her, and Annie, vexed, 
called to the laughing child — 

“What do ’ee go zaying that vor? What’s chil’ 
un’erstan’ ’bout ’ee cornin’ back?” 

“Mind what I tell ’ee — don’t let’n out ’vore I 
come back ! ’E’ll be ever so pleased then ! ” 

But the child still cried after her, and she ran 
back and kissed him. 

“ When Cathie comes back ! ” she said, and she 
drew from her pocket her own rosy apple and gave 
it to him. 


CHAPTER IX. 


It was four o’clock in the afternoon. The long 
shadows of the elms fell across the farmyard. A 
brooding stillness hung over the place. The clock 
ticked in the corner of the kitchen. The cocks and 
hens were away on the hillside foraging. There 
was no life anywhere round the house. 

Then faintly from the distance came the sound 
of a pickaxe falling dully in moist soil. Annie 
was up in the little garden at the back tilling 
potatoes. She came in after a while, carrying in 
one hand a basket smelling freshly of new-turned 
earth, while she led her toddling boy with the other. 
They entered the silent house together. 

“ Up-a-daisy ! ” said Annie, as the little fat legs 
struggled to mount the steps ; and the silent house 
echoed with his baby laughter. 

She put the board up before the door. She could 
not quite forget Cathie’s words, though she affected 
to despise them. She took off her baby’s hat, 
but he roguishly put it on again. He loved the 
sunshine. 


44 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Annie glanced at the clock. It was later than 
she expected to find it. The bread had yet to be 
baked. She lifted the heavy pan of dough on to 
the table, and turning it out, began to knead it. 
Willie came to her and wanted to be taken up, but 
her hands were over flour, and she could only stoop 
for a hurried moment and kiss him. 

Presently she ran out to fetch more wood. There 
was a large log that had fallen close to the steps, 
but it was too heavy for her to lift. She tried, then 
stood upright and pressed her hand to her side. 

Slipping the board out of the groove that held 
it, she dragged the log over the steps and across 
the floor. Her husband and her father would soon 
be in now, and she wanted the baking quickly done. 
She put the log on the fire and took down the 
bellows. 

Meanwhile Willie, playing near the door, per- 
ceived his opportunity. He accomplished the steps 
in safety, and with a little gurgle of delight started 
off on a voyage of discovery. 

The mother blew the fire within. The sound of 
the crackling wood and the breathing of the bellows 
filled the silence. 

It was when she rose and had hung up the bellows, 
and spread out the cloth for tea, that the silence fell 
upon her sense like the knell of a funeral bell. 

« Willie ! ” she cried. “ Where’s my Willie ? ” 

Then her eye fell on the boardless doorway. 

She was not alarmed, she told herself. What did 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


45 


Cathie’s old truck matter ? She walked across the 
yard and looked down the hill over the close- 
cropped grass towards the brimming river. In 
spite of herself she gave a sigh of relief. He was 
nowhere in sight, and if he had been on his way to 
the river, it would have been impossible for him to 
be out of sight yet. She turned back into the yard 
with a light heart. 

“Willie! Willie!” she called. 

He was nowhere in sight. She looked into the 
shippon, and behind the cart-shed, and down by the 
pig-sties. Then her breath began to come painfully 
and her knees to tremble. She had forgotten the 
pond. She ran to it. Round the extremest edges 
the water still trembled in a broad circle. She 
told herself it was the wind. She peered into its 
depths, crying “Willie, Willie!” 

The rumbling of wheels came over the steep hill- 
side. She ran towards the sound. Grandfer and 
Miah were returning with the carts. 

“ I’ve a-los’ Willie ! ” she cried in a husky whisper. 

The noise of the carts prevented their hearing, 
but her white-scared face made even Miah pull up 
his horse. 

“Pshaw!” he said when he heard her words. 
“Come up, Polly!” and he cracked his whip and 
went on. But Grandfer got down from the butt 
and left his horse standing. 

“ Los’ mun ? ” he asked. 

“ Ees, I’ve los* un ! ” 


46 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ He’s sleepin’ zumwheer.” 

“No ; he ’an’t been gone ten minutes, an’ ’e’d slep’ 
in the vorenoon ! ” 

Then they both looked towards the pond. 

“ He’s een ’bouts,” said Grandfer. 

And they both looked together, but they could 
not find him. 

“ He’s sleepin’ zumwheer,” said Grandfer ; and 
again they both looked towards the pond. 

He was sleeping somewhere : his bed was soft ; 
his rest was sweet. 

Then Grandfer bethought him of the footprints. 
He traced them from the steps straight across the 
yard. Then they lost them for a bit. But they 
found them once again, close beside the water’s 
edge. The water had swilled half into one. 

Trembling like a leaf, Grandfer called to Miah. 
He came slouching across the yard to the pond. 
Annie was clinging to the limb of a tree to keep 
herself from falling. 

Near the bank a rosy apple floated. Grandfer 
pointed to it, but nobody spoke. They began with 
rakes and poles to drag the pond. For a long time 
only rotten twigs and decayed leaves came up. 

Annie was now like a thing demented. She tore 
down her hair and threw off her apron, screaming — 

“You may drag! you may drag! He bain’t 
there, I tell ’ee I he bain’t there ! ” 

Something resisted the pressure of Grandfer’s 
rake. The old man turned an ashen white as 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 47 

slowly through the muddy water came the hand 
of a little child. 

The mother did not wait. She plunged in above 
her waist, and caught the wet clothes, and pulled the 
child towards her. Then grasping him in her arms 
she sped with him to the house, and throwing her- 
self into a chair before the fire, she chafed the little 
dripping limbs. Again and again she kissed the 
poor little blanched lips and pressed the curly head 
against her breast. 

Grandfer wanted to draw off the wet clothes, but 
Annie only murmured — 

“ No, no ; us can’t stay ! us can’t stay ! ” 

When the doctor came he was angry. 

“You should have wrapped the child in warm 
blankets at once!” he said. 

“Go ’long!” she answered. “Do ’ee s’pose a 
mother can’t fend for ’er own as ’as drawn the 
nourishment from her breast an’ been closer to ’er 
nor any other?” 

Even the doctor’s authority could scarcely persuade 
her to leave her hold of the child. She clung to it 
as they dragged it from her and laid it on the table. 

“ How long since you found it ? ” 

The door pushed open and Cathie entered. She 
was coming in hurriedly. Her lips were parted, her 
eyes strained. 

The moment her glance fell on the little form 
lying out straight and still, she screamed, then 
stood a moment staring at the sight. One little 


48 


'POSTLE FARM. 


dimpled hand hung over the edge of the table, 
and five clear diamonds, God’s own jewels, hung 
one on each finger-tip, and then fell one by one 
like fast-dropping tears. 

Cathie’s face became possessed with fury. She 
ran at the distraught mother. 

'‘What did I tell ’ee?” she screamed. “Didn’t 
I tell ’ee to keep un in ’vore I come back ? ” She 
shook her fiercely as she spoke. 

The woman’s eyes were riveted on the still coun- 
tenance of her dead baby ; she did not heed. 

The doctor had drawn off the clothes now. He 
wrapped a blanket round, and began to try and 
induce the burdened lungs to act. He had no 
hope, but for the mother’s sake he did it. 

At length he put his ear to the heart for the last 
time. There was no motion. Then he put his hand 
kindly on the poor thing’s shoulder. 

“You must try and make up your mind to bear 
it,” he said. 

She looked at him in a dazed way. Already it 
seemed to her years and years and years since she 
had missed her child from her side and called to 
him “Willie! Willie!” 

“The child is quite drowned,” the doctor said. 
“He is dead.” 

She raised dull, uncomprehending eyes. Then 
they wandered from the doctor to Cathie, and in 
an instant her whole face became disfigured with 
fury. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


49 


^*You done it!” she shrieked. “You she-devil! 
You gawked in’s vire! You cast avil eye on un! 
Go to damnation with yer tricks ! ” 

Before any one could check her, she hurled her- 
self on Cathie and flung her madly backwards. 
The child fell heavily on the sharp edge of the 
fender and lay still. 

“Take the woman!” said the doctor. “Take 
her away from the room, or she will do more mis- 
chief. She has done enough here already, God 
knows ! ” And he stooped over the livid face of 
poor little Cathie. 


CHAPTER X. 


For a fortnight Cathie remained unconscious. Then 
slowly the light filtered back. She spoke rationally, 
ate and slept, rose from her bed, and performed the 
ordinary duties of the day ; but her mind was a 
blank. She could recall nothing of her little cousin, 
nor of what she had learnt at school. She could 
remember no one’s name ; she met old familiar 
friends as strangers. 

“ What be ’ee a-called ? ” she inquired of her 
aunt. When told who she was she replied — 

“ Ah ! but you’m startin’ ’vore long on a long, 
long journey — an’ ’ee won’t come back nether ! ” 

Grand fer heard her, and brushed the tears from 
his eyes. It was Sunday evening, and he had sat 
down in the window-sill to have a quiet pipe. “I 
mind,” he said presently, with a view to diverting 
himself and others — “ I mind, when I was a young 
man, when a lad died mun always ’ad zix young 
women vor be bearers toy’n. Likewise, when ’twas 
a young ’oman mun ’ad zix young men — lads like 
— vor car’n ; an’ they always took the corpse ’long 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


51 


the lych roo-ads toy grave. I mind zo well as 
can be, theer was a young man as died suddent- 
like — Johnny Morrison I mind ’e was a -called; 
an’ us ’ad young women to car’n across the church- 
yard, an’ my sister Ann, ’er was one o’ mun. Well, 
theer was a mortal ’igh wind a-blowin’, an’ as ’er 
come ’vore ’er los’ ’er ’at — whizzled away, ’e did — 
one wi’ veathers in un ’er’d a-bought a parpose, 
an’ ’e went through a puddle, an’ never weren’t fit 
for nought arter ! I mind it zo well as can be. 
But the strangestest part is vor come. Long 
whiles after, ’ees brother an’ another young chap 
was out newsin’ late o’ nights, an’ they bided nigh 
the church ge-ate ’vore mun zaid good -night — as 
young men will — vor one ’ad to go westward an’ 
t’other zouth. An’ as they bided theer one o’ mun 
zeed a big black dog a-comin’ ’vore, an’ ’e zaid, 
‘ Zee me ’eave stone to thiccy black dog ! ’ an’ 
t’other caught un by ’s arm an’ zaid, * Thiccy ain’t 
no dog ! ’ An’ ’e stop kind o’ skeert, an’ theer 
was a coffin a-comin’ along zo large as life, wi’out 
no bearers, but jus’ movin’ ’long zame as eef theer 
was! An’ through the ge-ate ’e went — ge-ate 
openin’ an’ shuttin’ vor’n silent - like. An’ they 
rinned ’vore, the both o’ mun, an’ theer wasn’t 
nought theer — only, jus’ as they come back, a 
me-aid’s ’at kind o’ whizzled past. Then they thought 
on Johnny Morrison, an’ ’air o’ mun stood on’s end. 
An’ they’d tell ’ee the truth o’t over an’ over, an’ 
ciidd’n nether one of ’em abide to be out le-ate 


52 


'POSTLE FARM. 


’gin the churchyard ge-ate arter ! Ah ! I’ve yert 
tell o’ strange zights ! strange zights, zure ’nough ! ” 

“An’ I’ve zeed mun !” cried Cathie. 

“ Never mind what ’ee’ve zeed ! ’Old yer tongue ! ” 
said Annie sharply. 

The child turned wounded eyes, like the eyes of 
an animal, on her aunt, and was silent. Just then 
the sheep-dog rose growling, and a moment later 
a stranger knocked at the door. The little drowned 
boy had now been buried six weeks, but the words 
for the tombstone had not yet been decided on. 
Grandfer had told the poet of the neighbourhood, 
the village grocer’s assistant, to call at ’Postle Farm 
on this particular Sunday evening, in order to ar- 
range a suitable verse for the tombstone. 

He entered now, looking important and conse- 
quential. 

“ Us wants zome’at becomin’ vor piit on’s ’ead- 
stone,” said Grandfer. “Us knows as ’ow you mad* 
zome zeemly lines when ol’ Beer to Stretchaway 
Varm geeve over, an’ us thought maybe you might 
a-manage zome’at zeemly vor us, dunnee zee ? ” 

“Certainly,” said the young man, taking out a 
pencil and paper from his pocket, and beginning 
to flourish the pencil in imaginary curves over the 
blank sheet, while he stretched his arms out so 
as to show his white linen cuffs to advantage. 
“ Certainly.” 

“ Dunnee mak’ it too long,” said Miah ; “ letterin’ 
comes expensive,” 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


53 


“No, no! Oh, dear me, no! We’ll make it a 
suitable length,” said the young man. “ Let me 
see. What were the details? Child aged twenty- 
one months — drowned where? River, I suppose?” 

“ Een’s pond,” said Grandfer. “ Oh, ’twas a cruel 
dathe vor zuch a bonny vlower ! ” 

He brushed his coat - sleeve over his eyes and 
looked across at his daughter. The poor stricken 
thing sat rocking herself to and fro. Oh for the 
balm of tears ! But the frozen well held them 
tight. 

The young man’s eyes followed the direction of 
Grandfer’s. He smoothed the paper out once 
more, and with another flourish of the pencil 
began : — 

“Weep no more, thou mother fond ” 

“ But ’er ain’t weepin’ ! ” objected Miah, 

“Hasn’t ’er wept at all ? ” inquired the poet, 
suspending his pencil. 

“ Not a tear ! not a tear ! ” said the old man, burst- 
ing into tears himself. 

The poet looked disconcerted ; but, recovering, 
he licked the point of his pencil and started writ- 
ing, saying comfortably — 

“ Ah, but ’er will weep ! Leastways, ’er did ought 
to. Fond o’ the child, I s’pose ? ” 

“Fond o’t!” cried Grandfer, rising from his chair. 
“ Fond o’t ! My God ! my God ! Vond o’ it, did 
’ee zay ? Poor critter ! Lord ’a mercy on ’er, my 


'POSTLE FARM. 


54 

poor little Annie, as was a chil’ ’erself not zo many 
year agone ! ” 

“ Weep no more, thou mother fond,” 

repeated the young man, sucking the end of his 
pencil, 

“ For this thy babe drowned in the pond. 

She 

Boy or girl ? ” 

“Boy; beautiful golden-’aired pictur’ of a little 
angel ! ” said Grandfer. “ Ah, Loord, Loord, ’twas 
won’erful cruel of ’ee!” 

“He soon will wait thee in realms above. 

Where all is light and peace and love ! 

There ! What do you think of that ? ” 

Grandfer scratched his head. “ It don’t zeem 
vor give it zomeways,” he said slowly. “ Zeems 
as ef ’twasn’t my bonny boy someways!” 

“H’m,” said the poet, discouraged. “Well,” he 
said, after a moment, “ p’raps I’d bestways take it 
home an’ think over’t a bit.” 

He got up, and brushed some whitewash off his 
sleeve, and raked his side curls upwards before 
replacing his hat. 

“ ni look in through the week,” he said. “After- 
noon.” 

Cathie rose from the corner where she had been 
cowering near the fire. She followed the young 
man out. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


55 


“I can tell ’ee zome’at to zay !” she said. “Tak’ 
out pencil an’ write,” 

The young man stared at her, and chucked her 
under the chin. 

“My dear,” he said, “ I’ve just failed myself. 
What should you know about epitorphs.^” 

“Write!” said Cathie, gripping him by the arm. 
“Write!” 

To please her he took out his pencil ; but pres- 
ently, as the words flowed smoothly off her tongue, 
he exclaimed — 

“My' word!” And when it was finished, “Is 
that all?” 

Cathie nodded her head. 

“ Well, look here,” said the young man, produc- 
ing a threepenny - bit ; “ don’t say as how you 
done it — see? — and you shall have this here!” 

Cathie took the threepence, and the young man 
re-entered the house. 

“See,” he said, “when I got out it all came to 
me plain as a pikestaff, and I’ll read it to ’ee. 

“ In the cold pond my limbs were chilled, 

My blood with deadly horror thrilled, 

My feeble pulse forgot to play, 

I fainted twice, then died away. 

All means were tried my life to save, 

But could not keep me from the grave ! ” 

“ That’ll do vine ! ” said Grandfer, while the mother 
said hoarsely, “ Read un again ! ” 

Then as the young man ceased she cried, “’E 


56 


’POSTLE FARM. 


knows US tried vor sav’n ; 'e knows I 'eld un to 
my bosom, an* loved un, an’ gave un all the life 
I could ! ” and burst into tears. 

Grandfer, with the tears streaming down his own 
withered cheeks, knelt beside her chair and drew 
her head upon his breast; while Miah, going up 
close to the young man’s ear, asked — 

“Won’t so much letterin’ come expensive?’ 


CHAPTER XI. 


On Saturday night Miah stayed late at “The 
Swan” drinking his hard-earned money away in 
cheap whisky. Annie placed a light in the kitchen 
window and came up to bed. 

After a while she came into Cathie's room. 

“ I can’t bide over there ! ” she said ; “I be so 
lonesome wi’out my little lamb ! ” 

“Come along in ’ere wi’ me, then,” said Cathie, 
throwing back the bedclothes. 

She could not remember the little lost lamb her 
aunt spoke of, but her heart told her her aunt was 
sad and lonely, and she welcomed the poor thing 
to her warm bed. Her own heart beat for a little 
with a suffocating feeling, for always, until now, the 
poor stricken mother had avoided her. Every one 
had said cruel things of her that were not true. 
They had said she cast an evil eye on the baby 
and it had been drowned. What baby ? She knew 
no baby but Mrs Mollard’s, and that baby was 
living still. But now perhaps the tide was going to 
turn, and people were going to welcome her back, 


SB 


'POSTLE FARM. 


and praise her, and call her pretty names. This 
was the atmosphere she had been accustomed to, 
and the cold climate of suspicion and hatred 
poisoned her being and threatened to change her 
sunny temperament. 

She cried softly as she lay beside her aunt, but 
she hid her tears. 

She was sleeping when Miah’s heavy step came 
up the stair. His wife had, however, wakened at the 
first sound of his approach. She had heard the dull 
footfall coming down the steep hillside behind, and 
the click of his iron-toed boot against the stones. 
One stone caused him to stumble. It rolled away 
and hit the gate-post with a dull thud. Then the 
gate opened and fell back with a clang ; the door 
downstairs was closed noisily, and the heavy step 
came up the stair. The door of the opposite room 
opened and shut. 

It was then that Annie woke the child. 

“ He’s gone in ! ” she said. “ Mebbe he won’t miss 
of me!” 

She laid her hand on Cathie’s arm. The hand 
trembled. 

“ What be feared on ? ” asked the child. 

“ I b’ain’t feared on nothin’. ” 

At that moment the door opposite reopened, and 
in an angry voice Miah Sluman thundered out — 

“ Annie, wheer be ’ee to ? ” 

“Oh, he’s angered!” cried Annie; and the bed 
began to shake under her. 


THE DARKEST HOUR. 


59 


"What’ll us do?” cried Cathie. “ Us’ll hide.” 

Just then the door burst open. Miah stood 
holding a rushlight and glaring into the room. 

“Be ’ere?” he growled. 

“’Ees; I was just a-comin’,” said Annie, rising, 
white as her nightgown. 

He glared savagely at her, strode heavily and 
unsteadily across the room, and set down the rush- 
right on the mantelshelf. 

“ I’ll teach ’ee to come ! ” he said. 

The woman, white and scared, moved towards the 
door. 

“ I’m gwin,” she said ; “ I’m theer avore ’ee.” 

But he stepped in front of her. Then she 
screamed, and flung herself on her knees before 
him. 

" For the love o’ God, don’t be’ ard on me, Miah ! ” 

At that moment Cathie, who had been sitting up 
in bed, her eyes wide open, her lips set firm, flew 
with a sudden movement to the mantelshelf and 
knocked over the rushlight. 

“ Now, where be ’er ? ” she cried triumphantly, and 
dragging Annie to her feet, she pulled her through 
the door before the man could recover his dazed 
senses sufficiently to prevent her. 

“Come,” said Cathie when they were in the 
passage. “ Come quickly ’long o’ Grandfer.” Annie, 
surprised at the child’s sudden return to her former 
quickness, followed her. 

Grandfer was lying with his good ear on the 


6o 


’POSTLE FARM. 


pillow and had heard nothing. The sound of his 
regular breathing caused Annie to burst into a 
passion of thankful tears. All her life long her 
father had been to her a haven of refuge. 

Miah, cursing and swearing, stumbled down the 
passage in search of them. He had given himself 
a black eye groping for matches, and the pain 
had somewhat sobered him. Instead of searching 
further for Annie, he groped his way into his own 
room. They heard the bed creak as he flung 
himself heavily on it. 

Then, with their teeth chattering with cold and 
fright, they crept back to Cathie’s room. 

The child slept, but the woman lay awake till 
dawn. With the first twitter of the birds, the 
first grey waking to a world of grief, she slipped 
noiselessly out of bed and crept like a guilty thing 
into her husband’s. He stirred uneasily and flung 
a heavy hand across her face. The pain made 
her wince ; but at least the blow was unintentional. 
She crept nearer to the edge of the bed, and lay, 
with unseeing eyes, staring at the gradual glimmer- 
ing of the dawn through the square window-panes, 
and hearing with dull ears the first twittering of 
awakening birds. 


CHAPTER XII. 


One Saturday night, about two months later, Miah 
came home drunk. 

He staggered upstairs, and seeing his wife asleep, 
in a fit of drunken malevolence he threw the con- 
tents of the washhand basin over the miserable 
woman. Drenched to the skin, she dared not move 
till her lord and master lay sleeping soundly. 

Then she got up, shivering with the cold, and 
with tired numb fingers put on a dry night-gown, 
and slept as best she might on the draughty 
floor. It was the beginning of the chill October 
weather, and Annie was of a weakly constitution 
and melancholy disposition. The tragic loss of 
her baby had proved almost the last straw on 
shoulders already heavily weighted ; and now the 
wet, the exposure, and the grief proved too much. 
She woke next morning in a burning fever. When 
she tried to get up she fell and cut her face against 
the leg of the bed. 

Miah found her there when he turned lazily 
out of bed two hours later. She was soaked in 


62 


'POSTLE FARM. 


blood and in a dead faint. At first he thought 
he had been violent to her in the night, and feared 
he had killed her. It was the fear of the con- 
sequence on himself that caused him hastily to 
slip on his clothes and run for Grandfer. 

Between them they lifted her on to the bed 
and tried to restore consciousness ; but failing to 
do so, Grandfer started hurriedly for the doctor. 

After a while the blue -veined lids opened 
wearily, and Miah, in a spasm of thankfulness, 
cried — 

“ I didn’t mean ter ’urt ’ee, Annie, my dear ! Zay 
’c felled, will ’ee ? ” 

“ ’T wasn’t ’ee done it,” she answered faintly. “I 
come vor get up, an’ couldn’t stan’ — I fell ” 

'*Bah! you crazy idjut!” said the man, getting 
off his knees and slouching to the door ; “ you 
mos* drove the senses out o’ me ! ’Ere ’ll be a 
doctor’s bill an’ all to pay. ’Tis some’at mad- 
denin’ wi’ women ; they be always into some’at. 
Clumsy-footed to-ad, ’ee be ! ” 

All the doctors in the world cannot save a broken 
heart. The healing balm lies in one hand only. 
Though Annie struggled through the first violence 
of her attack, she could do no more. She faded 
with the year, and the first fall of winter snow 
fell upon her new-made grave. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Catherine at the age of twelve entered upon the 
duties of a woman. 

Kindly neighbours stepped in, but the child 
scowled them away. Her past was a blank ; old 
friends were strangers to her. 

After her recovery she had gone to school for 
a short time, but the children called her “ Crazy 
Cathie” and flung stones at her. And though 
she fought them like a tigress^ she gave it up 
after a while, and shrank from strange faces and 
rude tongues. 

And the neighbours said, “ ’Er bey stre-ange, zure 
'nough ! The chil’ern ’oily to ’er, ‘ Crazy Cathie ! ’ 
An’ that’s what ’er be, zure an’ zertain, I b’lieve. 
I b’lieve ’er’s got avil eye right ’nough. Poor 
Annie, ’er always would ’ave it ’er ’ad ; an’ I b’lieve 
’er ’ad the rights o’t ! ” 

Then Mrs Mollard, who was timid, chimed in 
with — 

“ Zee ’ow ’er looked to me as I come ’vore ; an’ 


*POSTLE FARM. 


64' 

when I got back to 'ome, zure 'nough the peg took 
ill an’ died. I knowed ’e would ! ” 

“ Theer now ! ” exclaimed the others, amazed at 
such conclusive evidence. “ Look to thiccy ! ’Er be 
bewitched ; ’er ’ath avil eye, zure 'nough. Better 
ways leave the me-aid, ’vore us zeeth end o’t!” 

So they left her, and she grew up a child of 
nature. 

The rich luxuriance of her beauty as she reached 
maturity was great. Had it not been for the belief 
that she possessed the evil eye, as well as that she 
was crazy, the humble dwelling would have been 
thronged with suitors. 

As it was, they left her for the most part un- 
molested. 

And she sauntered in the fields, and the warm 
sun shone upon her, and the rich earth yielded 
its beauty to her : the wind from heaven wooed 
her, and Nature opened her warm strong arms 
and took the girl to her heart, and nourished 
her. 

So she entered on her seventeenth birthday; 
and though her face was scowling to the work- 
aday world, down within her, her heart was 
warm ; and though her brain was stunted beneath 
the mass of ignorance that covered it, it struggled 
— often passionately, always persistently — for ex- 
pression; and sometimes it found it. 


BOOK II. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS 




CHAPTER XIV. 


When he looked from the window he saw it dis- 
tinctly ; but when he started out to find it, he lost it. 

First it amused him ; then it puzzled him ; then it 
gave him an uncanny feeling, and he did not like it. 

He looked at it from the east windows of the 
room he occupied. First, in the days of his con- 
valescence, he had looked at it with unseeing eyes, 
yet with a certain sense of rest, as one turns from 
the glare of the sun to a shady place. But gradu- 
ally, as he gained in strength, he had begun to 
weave over it a queer romance. It excited his in- 
terest. He wanted to see it closer. He wanted to 
be transported there and then across the river, with- 
out the trouble of movement that had become such 
a weariness to him. Finally, it became an incentive 
to health. 

There was only a leaky boat to row himself across 
the broad silent river in ; then a quarter of a mile’s 
ascent over the bare grassy hill flecked with white 
daisies, to the line of elm trees standing half-way 
up. There stood those cold bare walls, with ne’er a 


68 


^POSTLE FARM. 


window in them — the sloping roof, the patched 
chimney — that strange, cold, dreamy, weird old 
farm. 

But he dared not use the boat, for the current was 
strong. He had to take the road for a couple of 
miles, and cross by the bridge, and follow the wind- 
ing lane that led eventually to the back of the ridge 
where the old farm stood. 

He did this twice, and each time he failed to find 
the farm. Then he began to question. Was the farm 
really there, or did he only fancy it was ? Was it 
an aberration of intellect after his recent fever ? 

When the servant came into his room one even- 
ing he asked him — 

“ Do you see that old grey building ? ” 

Where, sir ? ” 

There — straight across the water — half-way up 
the hill — the sunlight has caught a pane of glass in 
the window — do you see ? It burns like fire. I 
declare, that is the first time I ever knew it had a 
window ! Do you see it ? Speak, man, quick ! Do 
you see it ? ” 

Yessir — certainly, sir — yessir.” 

“That’s all right, then,” said Temple, heaving a 
deep sigh of relief and turning from the window. He 
had had queer fancies during his illness, and they 
had left his nerves unstrung. 

“ Mighty strange contrydictorhaness ! ” the man 
remarked, as he repeated the conversation in the 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


69 


pantry below. “ He’ll be all so strange as the old 
man ’for’ he’s done. In the blood, don’t ’ee see ? — 
bound to come out, though he be only distant rela- 
tioned. He ain’t so bad like the governor nether, C 
though not so good-lookin’ accordin’ to.” 

“ Well, I’ve a-yert tell ’e ain’t relationed to un at 
all,” replied the other man. 

The entrance of the butler prevented any reply. 
He glanced with angry suspicion from one man to 
the other. 

“What be doin’ of? ” he inquired. 

“ Just tellin’.” 

“Yes, ‘jus’ tellin”! ’Atchin’ vile valsehoods an’ 
speakin’ evil o’ digna-tories — that’s what you be 
after! If it warn’t for the dignity o’ the ’ouse, I’d 
do wi’out nether one of ’ee ! ” 

The men were silent ; only, they made faces be- 
hind the butler’s back as they returned to their 
work with a vast show of industry. 

In the great silent library the master of the house 
stood in solitude. The remnants of a singularly 
handsome physique were still left to him. He was 
standing before the fire, with his hands in his pockets 
and his legs astride, as he used to stand in the merry 
days of his youth. Only, then his head had been 
thrown back as he swept the room with his brilliant 
eyes. Now, his head hung heavily forward, the chin 
resting on the sunken chest. This was the pathetic 
difference. Every now and then he rolled his fine 
eyes round the room with a sudden look of appre- 


70 


*POSTLE FARM. 


hension. Saving for this, he remained motionless, 
excepting when his shrunken legs lost their firm- 
ness and he shifted his pointed feet with a spas- 
modic movement to preserve his balance. 

Oh ! the pathos of extreme old age, that will not 
own itself vanquished ! 

Upstairs the young man strode to and fro. His 
figure, scarcely above average height, was lithe and 
graceful. Passably good - looking, he fell very far 
short of the magnificent old man wearing out the 
evening below him, in sullen solitude. Yet he was 
more lovable. One had to trust him ; and one 
knew, if he failed one, it would not be for lack 
of steadfast desire, but because circumstances had 
proved too strong for him and broken him down 
as well as you. 

“ Now I am well, I hate this life ! ” he burst out. 
And he turned to the window and drew aside the 
heavy curtain. 

The moon was at the full, and fell in a broad 
stream of silver across the silent river. In the park 
the deer were feeding : their antlered horns looked 
weird and ghostly as they moved them up and down 
in their eager browsing. 

One little light burnt steadily in the place where 
the old farm stood. He looked at it, till it seemed 
like a hand beckoning him, or a will-o’-the-wisp, 
which, do what he would, he must follow. 

He turned impatiently from the window and 
paced the room again. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


71 


“ I am nothing here ! ” he said — “ nothing but a 
puppet on strings, pulled this way and that to the 
whim of an old miser. I must go, or I shall rust — 
just like an old tin kettle with the bottom kicked 
out. But supposing he objects and I lose my 
money ? Ah, there’s the rub ! The poor old chap 
shuns me, after all, and daresay will be as glad 
to be rid of me as I to be rid of him. At any 
rate, get off for the present I must. But before I 
go I’ll find that old farm, or perish in the effort.” 
So saying, he turned once more to the window. 

Clouds had gathered above and on all sides, but 
just where the moon rode the sky was clear. She 
looked like a ship in full sail, becalmed upon a 
placid ocean, and the dark and broken clouds 
seemed like rocks and treacherous quicksands. 

The sense that something was expected of him, 
that something was coming break the even 
tenor of his life, was borne in upon him as he 
gazed. It filled him with a vague uneasiness ; and 
it was late that night before he slept. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Leaning over the low stone wall, with her magni- 
ficent tawny locks gathered into an untidy knot, 
and her brilliant hazel eyes glaring from under her 
straight brows, was crazy Catherine. The splendid 
development of her figure and the inherent dignity 
of her pose seemed to point to a riper age than 
seventeen. Yet seventeen summers only had it 
taken to mould her ripe beauty, to place her a 
queen amongst her kind. 

She drew her shapely arms from the stone wall 
and stretched herself to her full height, raising her 
eyes to heaven as though searching an answer in 
its inscrutable depths to the myriad questions that 
formed within her. 

At that moment the lowering defiance which had 
disfigured her face left it. She was for that one 
supreme instant transcendently beautiful. The 
next moment her eyes dropped from heaven to 
earth. They met the eager eyes of a man who 
was on the point of scrambling over the stone wall 
to greet her. In an instant her face was trans- 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


73 


formed. She glared at him, and the man, discom- 
fited, fell back. 

“Beg pardon, Cathie,” he said, humbly. “Seein^ 
as ’ow you was here all ’lone like, I thought 
mebbe ” 

The words died away on his lips, and he turned 
slowly and went back the way he had come. 

The girl’s lowering glance followed him. When 
he had disappeared she laughed scornfully. 

“ Men be proper fools ! ” she said. “ S’pose I’d 
wanted he.? Well, he didn’t s’pose I’d say ‘Come’l 
But there, ’tain’t he I want. What is’t I want ? ” 

She stretched out her hands, burnt brown with 
the sun, but beautiful hands for all that. 

“ What is’t I want .? ” she repeated slowly, and the 
pupils in the beautiful eyes widened as the thought 
tried to shape itself in her brain. “ I want — I 

want ” She looked all round her, at the bare 

expanse of hill before, at the sandy bed of the river 
beneath, and beyond it, embowered in trees, the 
chimneys, and here and there a window, of the old 
Hall. She looked at these all in turn, and then 
back to the low stone wall, with the red poppies 
growing in spare pieces of barren soil here and 
there, their roots wedged in between the piled 
stones. 

And she suddenly burst into tears and kissed 
the poppies. 

“ I wonder if every maid loves ’em as I love ’em,” 
she said, — “ loves everythin’ what’s out an’ about — 


74 


POSTLE FARM. 


the very bullocks, an’ the cows, an’ all the sheep, an’ 
what can’t fend for theirsels — an’ hates the men folk, 
what worry the life out o’ mun ! ’Tis turble wicked ! 
I be crazy, I b’lieve, like mun says I be. Livin’ be 
cruel difficult. One minute ’tis all beautiful, an’ the 
nextest ’tis dark an’ wicked, an’ I could kill them 
as is downtreadin’ them as is weaker nor theirsels. 
An’ what’s the good o’t all? Why, jus’ nothin’, 
nothin’, nothin’ all through ! ” 

She dashed the tears from her wet lashes, and 
hastily picking a bunch of the poppies, she ran back 
along the hillside, crushing the yellow-eyed daisies 
under her nimble feet. The sheep - dog came 
bounding to meet her as she neared the yard 
gate. The cows were already standing round, for 
it was past their milking-time. She did not stay 
to drive them into the shippon, but entering the 
weather-beaten old house with its frowning fron 
she fetched a milk-pail from the dairy and began 
operations on the peaceful-eyed creatures, as they 
stood chewing their cuds, in the irregularly paved 
yard. 

The rhythm of the milk falling in a soft shower 
into the empty pail was the only sound now in the 
quiet homestead. 

She went to work steadily till the last cow was 
milked ; then she threw open the yard gate, and 
the dog barked at the cows’ patient heels, and 
soon the last one had filtered out, and the yard 
was empty. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 75 

And again she leaned on the rail and fell into 
a reverie. 

Presently the clinking chains and heavy hoofs of 
the farm -horses came faintly down the lane. At 
the pond, covered with duckweed and shadowed by 
the flowering elderberry, they paused to drink. 

The girl watched them idly ; then, as if suddenly 
recollecting, she picked up the brimming pails of 
milk, and passed with her burden into the house. 

“ Ees, that be it ! that be it ! ” cried a voice at the 
doorway. “Zame as usual ! Nothin’ ready, nothin’ 
thought on ! Never a sip o’ tea or a bite ’ave I ’ad 
sinth midday ! That don’t trouble ’ee, ’ee good-for- 
nothin’ crazy crettur!” 

It was Miah who spoke. Coarser and larger and 
redder than before, he stood threateningly over 
the girl. 

“You think Grandfer ain’t ’ere, so ’ee can speak 
as ’ee’ve a mind to ! But ’ee can’t ! ” she answered. 
“’Ee can speak so far as ’ee’ve a-spoke a’ready, 
but ’ee can’t speak no farder ! Tend the pigs, an’ 
when the meal’s a-served I’ll tell ’ee!” 

She indicated the door with an imperious move- 
ment of the head. The man’s skin took a deeper 
red. He seemed about to speak, or even to strike ; 
but when he met her bold unflinching gaze, he only 
muttered a low curse, and went out to do as she 
had bidden him. He had hardly gone out when 
Grandfer came in — poor, infirm old man — and tot- 
tered-to into a chair near the door. 


76 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“Dish o’ tay?” the girl asked, glancing at him 
over her shoulder. 

The old man shook his head. He was so tired 
he could have cried. But the girl went on with 
her work and took no notice. 

When the meal was ready she went to the door- 
step and called to Miah ; then she turned and took 
the limp tired hands that lay with such touching 
weariness on the old man’s knees, and held them 
firmly in her own. He seemed to gather strength, 
while she perceptibly paled. 

“Now ’ee can tak’ a sip o’ tay,” she said; and 
the old man looked up, with the grateful moisture 
in his eye, and answered with alacrity — 

“ Ay, I can zo ! I can zo ! Ees, fey I can ! I’ve 
a-worked ! My ! ’tes amazin’ the work I can piit 
een, an’ me voour-score — eh, Miah.^” 

Miah laughed coarsely, and the light faded from 
the old man’s eye. 

A dangerous darkness gathered in the eye of the 
girl, and the man who had laughed shifted uneasily 
in his chair. 

It was a sorry household for the girl to fend for 
— the rough coarse man, the frail old Grandfer, the 
youthful carter who gaped at her beauty. To her 
dawning womanhood the world seemed a dark and 
cruel place. Since her aunt’s death there had been 
no one to teach the poor child the womanly acts 
of a woman. The floor of the dwelling-room re- 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


n 


mained stained with mud and grease from one 
week's end to another. Only the plates and crocks 
and dishes were spotless. In her person scrupu- 
lously clean, she was yet sadly untidy : there would 
be holes in her stockings, for she knew not how to 
darn ; rents in her faded gown, for she knew not 
how to sew. The neck of her bodice would often 
be unfastened, leaving the white pillar of her throat 
bare to the sun and the rain. Yet her magnificent 
beauty surmounted it all : she was a queen, and the 
worst of men dared not touch her, 


CHAPTER XVI. 


When Temple rose on the morning after his de- 
cision to leave Upcott Hall, the sun had risen 
long before him. It shone in all its yellow strength 
full on the old farmhouse across the river. But it 
could not warm the cold grey walls, nor seem to 
put a breath of life about it. The place remained 
silent and motionless as the tomb. 

He commenced breakfast alone, as was his cus- 
tom — the master preferring to take his meals at 
irregular intervals. 

One servant removed the dish- covers, a second 
handed him hot rolls, a third poured him out 
coffee ; then they all three solemnly withdrew, and 
Temple ejaculated, “ Praise heaven ! ” 

These trappings of wealth oppressed him. 

When the butler returned to give him more coffee, 
Temple inquired — 

“ When will Lord Frobisher be down, do you 
think ? ” 

“Not before two o’clock, sir.” 

“ H’m ! I was thinking of leaving by the 2 . 30 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. Jg 

express. That drives it rather close. You might 
mention it to him.” 

The old man left the room, and returned with 
the message that his master wished the departure 
deferred till the next day. 

Temple was annoyed, but did not evince it. 

“ His lordship’s not the thing to-day, sir,” con- 
tinued the old butler. “ His night’s rest was 
rumplesome. He will take his meals alone to- 
day ; but after dinner he would like to see you, if 
you please, sir, in the library.” 

“All right,” said Temple. 

“ Pray heaven,” he continued to himself as the 
man withdrew, “ that this means I get off to- 
morrow ! Six mortal weeks have I been here, and 
four of them spent on a cursed sofa staring at 
that old God - forsaken place over yonder, till it 
has burnt itself into my brain.” 

He sauntered through the window and down the 
velvet-turfed lawn, and, throwing himself under the 
shade of a spreading cedar, read away the idle 
hours of the morning. 

Luncheon over, the lassitude that had still clung 
to him after his fever suddenly left him. 

“ A walk’s the thing for me ! ” he cried. “ Noth- 
ing like exercise for a man who has been filled 
with doctor’s nostrums for four weeks ! ” and, 
whistling to the big retriever which lay guard- 
ing its master’s dominions, he started off across 
the park. 


8o 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Turning to the right, he followed the river for 
the best part of seven miles, by which time it 
had narrowed to a fresh -water stream, which he 
crossed. 

Presently he came to a deep pool in a sequestered 
nook, and slipping off his clothes, he enjoyed a lazy 
swim among the reeds and water-rats. After that 
he continued his way refreshed, but passing a small 
inn he dropped in for a cup of tea. This the land- 
lady supplied to him in a little garden arbour, 
together with cut -rounds, Devonshire cream, and 
home-made jam, for all of which he paid the modest 
sum of sixpence. 

After the tea he lit his pipe, and lingered over 
it till the sun was beginning to make long, declin- 
ing shadows. 

Then he proceeded on his homeward way. It 
lay at the back of the hills that bordered the river. 
After pursuing it for several miles, it occurred to 
him that unless he left the main road and found a 
way for himself across the hills, he should be taken 
a good many miles out of his course. 

So he turned from the road and began mounting 
the grassy hills, scrambling through hedges and 
vaulting gates, till at last he stood on the summit 
of the ridge. 

He had timed his ascent well ; for there, 
opposite to him, embowered in woods, were the 
grey chimneys of the Hall; and just beneath him, 
with its line of gnarled elm-trees, was — yes, the old 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


8i 


farmhouse he had tried on three other occasions 
“to strike.” 

He felt like a man in a dream as he chose the 
rough, stony path that led to it. A vague ex- 
citement, which he knew to be ridiculous, stirred 
in his veins as he pushed open the gate and 
entered the yard. 

It was empty and deserted. Not even a dog 
bounded forward to resent his intrusion. 

He advanced till he stood in the centre. Then 
he stopped, and turned slowly round, surveying 
everything. 

There was not a sound nor a movement. Yet 
his eyes were irresistibly drawn in one direction — 
the direction of the shippon. Here at last, through 
a square hole, made in the wall in order that the 
dung may be cast out through it, his eyes fell upon 
the face he was destined never to forget. Its mag- 
nificent, scowling beauty repulsed him — yet he had 
to look. 

He could think of nothing to say. How long 
he remained meeting the dark glance of the bril- 
liant eyes he never knew. Then she disappeared, 
but only for an instant. She reappeared at the 
door, towering in her full beauty and haughtily 
regarding him. 

“What be doin’ of?” she asked. 

Before he knew it, he had raised his hat — raised 
his hat to rags? raised his hat to beauty? To 
neither. He had raised it to the woman. 

F 


POSTLE FARM. 


S2 


“ I beg your pardon,” he said. “ I am a stranger 
here. Can you tell me if I can reach the Hall 
this way?” 

“How should I know?” she answered, with 
sudden passion. “What do I know, savin’ when 
the light peeps ’tis day, an’ when the moon shines 
’tis night ? ’Tis all dark here — dark ! ” She 
swept her hand with a tragic despair twice across 
her brow. Then, recovering herself, she answered, 
“You’d bes’ ways go. I can’t tell ’ee nothin’.” 

He did not want to go. 

“Can you tell me the name of the farm?” he 
asked. 

“ Ees. ‘ Postle Varm * — that’s what they calls 
mun.” 

“Can I get to the river from here?” 

“Zome days,” she answered. 

“ Some days ? ” he queried. “ Why not all 
days?” 

She smiled, but did not reply. Temple, meeting 
her eyes, smiled too. Since she had grown out of 
childhood, Cathie could not remember looking into 
any one’s eyes and smiling, and it affected her. She 
put her hand against her heart and turned away. 

She came back presently. Temple was still there. 

“ B’ain’t ’ee gwin ? ” she asked. 

“Presently,” he answered. “Tell me, what did 
you mean by saying it was all dark here ? ” He 
touched his forehead as he spoke. 

She knitted her brows, and tried to think. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


83 


Thinking, she walked across the yard, and leaned 
against the gate in her favourite attitude. Casting 
her eyes in dreamy forgetfulness over the sloping 
hill, the troubled look left her face. She had 
apparently forgotten query and querist. 

Temple watched her, and something almost of 
awe came over him at the exceeding beauty of the 
picture. 

Suddenly she raised herself, and stretching out 
both her hands, she cried — 

“ Oh, I want for know all about everythin’ 1 
Thiccy, an’ thiccy, an’ thiccy ! ” nodding her head in 
various directions. “ An’ what be that up there 
above us,” sweeping her hand to indicate the 
blue canopy that overspread them. ‘‘ It’s a-seemed 
to speak a time or two. Sometimes ’tis angered — 
sometimes ’tis soft — sometimes ’tis nought but ol’ 
rummage what saith nothing. What be it? That’s 
what I want for know. An’ where do the sun go 
when he rinneth hinder the hills ? An’ what’s the 
wind ? Where do ’e come from ? Where do ’e go ? 
What be they all ? What’s everythin’ ? Who’s 
God ? Where be us gwin to when us dies ? Does 
us stay in the red earth, with the rain an’ the rum- 
mage up over us? Be that the end o’ us? Oh, 
ain’t there any one along all this hillside as can 
tell me the meanin’ o’ life an’ these ’ere strivin’s 
an’ pinin’s wi’in me?” 

Temple was taken aback. Pity, which is so dan- 
gerously akin to love, beat at his heart. 


84 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“ Poor girl ! ” he said. “ Listen ” 

But she blazed upon him a fire of anger from her 
splendid eyes. 

“ Poor ! ” she cried, with a scorn that made him 
•feel as if he had suddenly shrunk to half his size. 
“ Poor I be, be I ? Go ! You’m like the rest o’ ’em, 
made so small ’ee can’t see nobody what’s a bit 
differ’nt to ’eeself but they’m ‘ poor crazed critturs ’ ! 
What did ’ee come ’ere for ? Go ’long with ’ee ! I 
could mak’ use o’ a lot o’ ugly names, but I won’t. 
If it warn’t for Miah, I might. But I ain’t a-gwin 
for do nothin’ Miah doth ! You go ’long ! ” 

She pointed to the river flowing peacefully at the 
base of the hills. 

“ I am very sorry ” he said humbly. “I — you 

quite misunderstood. I ” 

She interrupted him with an exclamation of im- 
patience, and pointed once more to the river. 

He hesitated only for an instant. Then, like the 
coarse rough men with whom she was thrown, he 
obeyed, and left her. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Lord Frobisher stood in his library in his 
favourite attitude on the hearthrug. His heir had 
just withdrawn, having received commandment to 
remain at the Hall another fortnight. 

The old man waited till he heard the chandelier 
jingle, and knew that Temple had gone to his own 
apartments, and there was no fear of his returning 
without first sending a servant to know if he would 
be willing to see him. 

He tottered to his great easy-chair and sank into 
it. Seeing him thus, with every nerve and muscle 
relaxed, it was impossible to believe he had stood 
for half an hour conversing without show of weak- 
ness or fatigue. 

The tension over, he now lay back in his chair 
exhausted ; and busily his mind ranged over the 
past. 

He saw himself as Haswell Frobisher, young and 
dashing. The favourite of his uncle, he had not in 
those days scrupled to live beyond his means. He 
thought that the money would be his. 


86 


'POSTLE FARM. 


The news of his uncle’s death came to him just 
when the hole he had made for himself became 
a little uncomfortably tight. He and his brother 
went together to the funeral — he somewhat patron- 
ising the brother whom he had always in his heart 
depised. The will was read : he was not in it, save 
for a paltry legacy of two thousand pounds. 

He could recall the shock even now — the wild 
effort to look unconcerned. 

All his life he had lived in the hope of being 
rich. To retrieve his fortunes he married an 
heiress, squandered her money, and abandoned 
her. She died in poverty. 

Just at this time his brother— Lord Frobisher — 
met with a severe coaching accident which, though 
not immediately fatal, left little hope of his ultimate 
recovery. In the ten years since his possession of 
his uncle’s money he had remained single. Hope 
of riches regained lured Haswell into excesses. Fate 
had been cruel, but she was now about to retrieve 
her good name. The money would be his yet ! 

But Lord Frobisher, with one foot in the grave, 
suddenly decided to marry. 

Haswell went down to the Hall to view the 
land. His brother had married his first and only 
love, so soon as she had become widowed, and 
now the joys of existence returned to him. Money 
and possessions had been nothing to him — this 
woman was all. 

The doctors smiled, and whispered hopes of re- 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 87 

covery. His beautiful wife nursed him with un- 
tiring devotion. Through the soft summer days 
they strolled in the park together, talking of the 
past that had separated them, and the wonderful 
present that had brought them together. 

And Haswell Frobisher looked on and gnashed 
his teeth. Even if his brother did not recover, 
there were now — or would be shortly — two lives 
between him and the property. 

Then he set himself to think. 

In the early spring a child was born. Within 
a fortnight the mother died of scarlet fever, the 
origin of which was sought for in vain. 

From that moment the widower’s health failed 
rapidly. His interest in life was gone. The infant 
was only a painful reminder to him of his former 
happiness. The old physical troubles, that dur- 
ing the eighteen months of his marriage he had 
successfully combated, returned with redoubled 
force. After lingering a year in much pain and 
inexpressible anguish of mind, he died. 

Haswell was summoned, and arrived on the day 
of the funeral. This time he had no hopeful antici- 
pations when the household assembled for the read- 
ing of the will — a coldness, that had no apparent 
cause, having sprung up between him and his 
brother since the latter’s widowhood. 

The will was read. 

Half his late brother’s large fortune was left to 
him, and the remaining half he was to hold in 


88 


’POSTLE FARM. 


trust for the child ; the whole to revert to him in 
the event of the child’s death. 

He remembered his start of petrified astonish- 
ment ; then the pallor creeping to his face, and 
seeming to creep into his veins and into his very 
bones, to remain there chilling him while life 
lasted. 

He recalled the features of the beautiful child 
as it played heedlessly with its nurse while the 
will was being read ; his immediate determina- 
tion to send it abroad ; the subsequent news of 
its death, in which the whole county had joined 
in regret. His breathing became laboured as his 
mind dwelt upon these scenes now — across the 
long crooked vista of years. 

Suddenly he tottered to his feet, and clenching 
one hand and shaking it towards heaven, while 
with the other he clung for support to the chair, 
he hissed out — 

“Curse my money! curse my money! All the 
devils in hell are in that money ! Curse it ! curse 
it!’* 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


It was one of those damp Devon days, when the 
atmosphere is too heavy to dispel the moisture, 
and it hangs over hill and valley like a shroud. 

Temple, looking out on it all, wished himself 
well out of the county. As he stood discon- 
tentedly watching the river and the shrouded hill 
beyond, his eye was attracted by a female figure 
on the opposite bank. It passed to and fro, with 
its head bent as if in search of something. 

“ Supposing,” thought Temple suddenly, “ I rode 
into Upcott and hired a boat for the remainder 
of my time here.^^ At least it would be some- 
thing to do ! I could row myself back. Yes ; I’ll 
do it!” 

Consulting his watch, he found there was hardly 
time to fetch the boat before lunch. Besides, the 
tide was out. He must ride in after lunch. 

At luncheon-time, happening to glance casually 
out of the window, he saw the same solitary figure 
still keeping up its dreary wandering up and 
down the river-bank. 


90 


’POSTLE FARM. 


His curiosity was awakened. He would fetch 
the boat and row to the opposite bank, and find 
out what she was doing. 

Accordingly he rode into Upcott, chose one, 
and rowed back. As he neared the bend of the 
river which would bring him in sight of the old 
grey farm, he got quite consumed with curiosity 
to know if the same dreary female figure would 
be wandering to and fro, stooping to the ground, 
and wholly absorbed in some mysterious business 
along the edge of the river. 

He was so near the wooded point now, that 
a couple of strong strokes brought the old farm 
full in view. 

He paused and looked. 

“ Still there ! ” he exclaimed ; and he rowed up 
close along the edge, and when he was within 
hailing distance he took the oars from the water 
and paused. 

The figure was walking slowly towards him, but 
with head bent so low, he could not distinguish 
the features. She came almost alongside of him 
at last, and he called — 

“ May I ask what you are looking for ? Ah ! I 
thought as much!” he added to himself, as at the 
sound of his voice the features of the girl he had 
met at the farm on the previous evening were 
revealed to him. 

“ Have you lost anything ? ” he inquired. 

She shook her head. He brought the boat up 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


91 


close to the bank and threw out the anchor. 
Then, getting out, he walked towards her. She 
was once more busy pacing to and fro, with her 
eyes on the ground. Now and again she stooped 
and turned the wet grass aside with her hand, 
or moved a stone with the toe of her rough boot. 

“You must have lost something, surely!” he 
said. “ What is it } ” 

“ Nothin’,” she answered, without looking up. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Just lookin’!” 

“Looking for what?” 

“ I dunno.” 

“Don’t know what you are looking for!” he 
exclaimed. 

“ No,” she answered, stopping in her search sud- 
denly and looking at him. “ Be that strange ? ” 

“ It struck me rather so at first,” he answered. 

Then he turned slowly towards the boat. What 
he could only suppose to be her clouded intellect, 
together with her great beauty, struck him as one 
of the most pathetic things he had ever known. 

“ Be gwin ? ” she inquired. 

“ I was thinking of it,” he answered. 

She looked at him wistfully. 

“Tell me some’at, ” she said. 

“ What shall I tell you ? ” 

“Just anythin’, so long as ’tis what I aren’t knowed 
afore.” 

He looked at a loss how to satisfy her. 


92 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ I know a lady,” he said at last, “ who would 
know exactly what to say to you ; but unfortunately 
she isn’t here. She always says the right thing and 
does the right thing.” 

“ My sakes ! ” exclaimed Cathie, “ us never does 
up there,” jerking her head in the direction of the 
farm. 

“Never say and do the right thing?” 

“ No, never. I know us don’t ! ” 

A troubled look settled on her face. She brushed 
her brow with that impatient helpless gesture that 
had stirred his pity so powerfully on the previous 
evening. 

“ Would you like to see a photo of this lady who 
always does and says the right thing ? ” 

Her lip curled, and she shook her head. 

“ Poor soul ! ” she said, turning away, “ her must 
be mortal uninterestin’.” 

Temple did not hear. He was taking reverently 
from his breast coat-pocket a photograph, which he 
now held out to Cathie to look at. 

She put out her hand to take it, but he drew the 
photo back a little way, involuntarily. Cathie saw it. 

“ I won’t look nether ! ” she cried angrily. “ What 
be feared on ? ” 

“I beg your pardon,” he answered, placing the 
photo in ^ her hand. “I only thought ” 

An exclamation from Cathie prevented his finish- 
ing the sentence. 

“ My 1 ain’t ’er fine ! Look to the jewels on ’er ! 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


93 


an* the lace ! an’ the ’air of ’er ’ead all towered up 
like ! Dear sakes ! be that what womenfolks look 
like over where you be?” 

More or less,” he answered, adding, with a lover’s 
partiality, But not quite so nice as that ! ” 

“Looks, an’ saith, an’ doth mos’ ways what ’er 
should ! Well, ’ee can say what ’ee like, but there 
be a mortal sameness in it.” 

And without looking at him again she recom- 
menced her search in the grey grass of the salt 
marsh. 

Temple, who had been half disposed to be angry, 
laughed instead. 

“ There’s anything but a sameness in her to me,” 
he answered, as he turned with a quick stride to the 
boat. 

“Say! look ’ee ’ere!” she called; “if ’ee come 
to-morrow. I’ll a-show ’ee some’at ! ” 

He nodded good - naturedly. He had not the 
slightest intention of going. 

“Will ’ee come?” she called. 

“Very likely.” 

“ Answer up proper whether ’ee will or no, for 
certain ! ” 

And Temple hesitated but an instant before he 
answered, “I’ll come!’' 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ Loves me ! Loves me not ! Loves me ! The 
daisy has told me the truth!” clasping her hands 
with a pretty glad gesture. “Why do we women 
act so foolishly ? We run, every one of us, in books 
and out, to the daisy to tell us if he loves us, if he 
doesn’t I And if the daisy says ‘ No,’ we are quite 
depressed, though we won’t admit it ; and if the 
daisy says ‘ Yes,’ we are in a transport of happiness ! 
Why were wc women made so foolish? Imagine a 
man doing it 1 ” 

Elsie was one of those women who still cling to 
the old superstition that man is a superior animal. 

Nobody made any answer, for there was nobody 
there to do it. Elsie was soliloquising, as women in 
love are apt to do. The country lay warm in the 
sunshine ; a brooding tenderness was on the hills. 

The girl, who sat in an easy -chair under the 
shadow of a large magnolia, was not pretty in a 
literal sense of the word. People who flattered 
themselves they could discriminate to a nicety 
where female beauty was concerned, called her 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 95 

** pretty- looking ” ; and perhaps they were not far 
wrong. 

Her dress was fresh and cool, and a subtle 
delicacy hung about her like the perfume of a 
flower. She was innocent and guileless. Before 
everything else, one felt she must be shielded. In 
these days, when no one need be shielded, this gave 
her a very special charm, and even lent to her an 
element of originality which her character was far 
from possessing. 

Men who had passed the first passion of their 
youth, and given all the ardour of their manhood 
to what was worthless, sought her company, and 
looked with dispassionate interest for the first signs 
of awakening love. But with that odd little crank 
in woman’s nature that upsets all our most arduous 
calculations, instead of being humbly grateful, and 
accepting the first eligible offer, Elsie proved most 
difficult to please. Love did not awaken with that 
spontaneity the man-world had thought probable. 

Major Clavers came out of the house and walked 
towards his daughter. Elsie, who was enjoying her 
reverie, was a little sorry to see him, but with a 
woman’s hypocrisy she laid her hand on the chair 
next her own, saying — 

“Sit down here, daddy.” 

Major Clavers was not an energetic man, and it 
took him some time to reach his daughter’s side. 
When he got near enough to answer her without 
raising his voice, he said — 


96 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“All right, my dear, I will,” and seated himself. 

In his face there was no determination. The 
brow was a little troubled, the chin receding ; 
kindliness looked out of his eyes; the whole was 
redeemed from absolute weakness by a nose of 
some position. 

“Mammy back yet?” he inquired. 

But his daughter did not answer. A delicate 
colour had sprung into her face, and her father, 
following the direction of her eyes, saw Temple 
coming towards them across the lawn. 

Elsie rose and put out her hand to him, and as 
he took it in a quick impulsive clasp, love was 
no longer hidden, but stood revealed. 

Yet there was no open expression between them ; 
Temple did not avow his love. 

They loved each other. For the present that was 
joy enough for both. 


CHAPTER XX. 


It was August. The hot sun beat down on the ripe 
grain. Men and women alike turned out into the 
harvest - fields. The busy sound of the reaping- 
machine came from far and near, and the shouts 
of the men as the startled rabbits fled from the 
field echoed through the valleys. 

Cathie, with her arms bare to the elbow, bound 
the rich sheaves with her nimble fingers. 

Temple, who had returned to the Hall after an 
absence of some seven or eight months, rowed 
himself across the river, wooed there by the 
echoing voices and the yellow waving corn — 
burnished gold against the deep blue sky. He 
found his way into a corn-field where one solitary 
worker bent to bind the sheaves. She did not 
hear him approach, for the rustle of the full ears 
as she bound them with a deft turn of the wrist 
and flung the sheaf behind her covered the sound 
of his footfall. 

It was Temple’s shadow falling across the ears 
she was stooping to gather that caused her to 


r; 


98 


’POSTLE FARM. 


start slightly and raise herself. More than once 
since that first promise had his shadow fallen on 
her as she worked. Her eyes were on a level 
with his, and they both looked each into the 
other’s, and neither spoke. 

Then she smiled at him slowly. 

It was a wonderful thing to see a smile dawn on 
Cathie’s face. “ It seems as if it came from a long 
way off — where angels are,” Temple said to himself 
afterwards ; and with that thought something quite 
new entered into his life, and entering, stayed there. 

“ I thought ’ee’d gone for zartain zure,” she said, 
“an’ ’ee wasn’t never cornin’ back no more.” 

“ I did go,” he said, “ the day after I saw you 
last.” 

“’Ave ’ee got the book o’ picturs for me.?” she 
asked. 

“ I forgot it ! ” 

Her face fell. 

“ I will bring it over to-morrow,” he said. 

“ Ees, bring mun over,” she said eagerly. “ I be 
gwin to larn lots from they picturs : I did from 
t’other book, ’ee know.” 

He was not listening particularly to her. His 
eye was glancing over her approvingly. 

“ I think you’re tidier than you were,” he said. 

She hesitated. 

“ I didn’t do it myself,” she said wistfully. 
“Bessie Mollard, over to Stibb Varm, did it for 
me. I show her picturs, and ’er sew’th — see ? But 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


99 


er*s a-seed all the picturs in the lastest book, an' 
’er won’t sew no more 'vore I show ’er ’nother.” 

“ I will bring you another,” he said. Then, “ What 
are you looking at ? ” 

“ I be lookin’ to your teeth.” 

“ What’s the matter with them ? ” 

“ They be so white.” 

“ Well, that’s what they should be. So are 
yours.” 

*‘They b’ain’t so white as your’n, I don’t believe. 
Grandfer’s got one ol’ snag a-lef’, an’ ’e be so yeller 
as a crow’s foot.” 

“That’s because he never cleans it, perhaps.” 

“In coorse ’e don’t.” 

“Well, he should.” 

“’Ow do ’ee clean mun, then.?” she asked with 
interest. 

“With a tooth-brush.” 

“What be that like?” 

“A little brush with a long handle. I’ll bring 
you one if you like.” 

“For Grandfer?” 

“No, for yourself.” 

“ I should like to ’ave one — fey I should so ! ” 

“All right,” he said. “I’ll bring you that and 
the book. I must be off now.” 

She nodded carelessly to him and stooped once 
more to her work. Temple watched her stretch 
out her shapely arms and gather the sheaf to her 
breast. It was a womanly task enough, after all, 


lOO 


’POSTLE FARM. 


he thought, though five minutes before he had 
told himself it was a sad pity she should work 
in the fields. But she lent a tender beauty to 
the action as she gathered the life-giving grain 
from the lap of Mother Earth and bound it into 
strength so that it might stand alone. She had 
already become emblematic to him of many 
things. 

He turned away slowly. 

“Zay!"’ she called to him after he had gone 
some distance; “’bout thiccy tooth-brush — don’t 
’ee bring yer own, ’ee know, ’cos I shouldn’ 
fancy ’e ! ” 

As Temple rowed home across the river, he 
thought of this girl he had left toiling on the 
hillside binding sheaves beneath the burning sun. 
Her flashes of intelligence, her perfect form and 
features, awakened in him an intensity of pity which 
during his absence he had striven in vain to put 
from him. 

He was no fool ; he was no profligate. He knew 
the path he had chosen was a dangerous one. He 
knew now, certainly, that when an idle hour came 
to him it would find him rowing his way across 
the river. He had resisted the temptation at first ; 
but, like all natures a little lacking in determina- 
tion, the first little impetus from the other side 
sent him rolling like a stone down the hill at a 
breakneck pace. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


lOI 


The girl insisted. That was his excuse. She 
wanted to learn. Why should he not teach her.^* 
But he was no hypocrite, not even to himself — 
that most fatal of all forms of hypocrisy — and as 
he stepped from the boat he said — 

“If this girl were plain I should not want to 
teach her. As she is beautiful, I do. I am aware 
that though my visits at present give her pleasure, 
they must in the end bring her pain. She will have 
aspirations above her station ; and what is the use 
of cultivating tastes that people in her own class 
cannot appreciate? Still, the experiment is an 
interesting one, and, as I realise the dangers, the 
probability is I shall have the strength of mind to 
escape them.” 

He strode back to the house, and loafed through 
the day with that idleness which is so fatal to 
an active disposition. 

Of course, when he got into bed he could not 
sleep ; and when at length he managed to doze 
off, something woke him with a start, and he sat 
up in bed peering into the dark recesses of the 


room, 


CHAPTER XXL 


“ Cathie ! ” 

The voice was a very timid one. It hardly rose 
above a whisper. 

“ Cathie ! ” 

A pig that lay in the manure -heap grunted. 
Beyond this there was no sign that a living thing 
had heard. It was not a romantic answer to a 
lover’s tender call. 

The young man, who was in the ordinary work- 
aday clothes of a ploughboy, advanced to the 
door and rapped on it. Then, afraid of his own 
temerity, he backed hastily, tripped over an empty 
bucket, startled the pig, and fell into the warm 
pit she had with a terrified squeal vacated. 

Cathie appeared at the door. 

“What be doin’ of.^” she inquired, frowning. 

“I thought mebbe, Cathie,” he said humbly, as 
he picked himself up — “I thought mebbe, since 
you was lone-like ” 

He stopped short, disconcerted at her forbidding 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


103 


face and his own condition, with the straws from 
the manure-heap sticking to his coat and trousers. 

“You look a beauty!” she said. 

He looked down ruefully. 

“ Mebbe,” he said, brightening — “ mebbe, 'gainst 
Tve a-claned myself ” 

She uttered an impatient exclamation. 

“ Oh, go 'long ! ” she said, and walked back into 
the kitchen. 

There was something like moisture in the young 
man’s pale blue eyes as he turned slowly away. 
He had missed another opportunity. 

Cathie was busy inside the house. 

A wonderful change for the better had come over 
the dwelling - room. The floor was swept and 
garnished, and a womanly neatness pervaded the 
place. 

As she hung the house flannel out and placed 
it to dry in the sun, her nostrils dilated, and she 
thrust out her red under-lip. 

“ Bah ! 'tis mucky work ! ” she exclaimed. “ But 
I b’lave I’ve lamed it now. I’ll go over this evenin’ 
an’ call Bessie for see it. ’Er’ll know whether it 
be right or no.” 

Accordingly, when she had set the men’s supper 
ready, she ran out the back way, and hurrying over 
the fields with her beautiful strong young step, she 
reached in something over twenty minutes Bessie 
Mollard’s home. 

Creeping along the wall till she reached the back 


104 


'POSTLE FARM. 


entrance, she gave a low whistle — then waited. No 
one came, and she presently repeated the signal. 
She dared not go boldly forward and knock at the 
door, for had Mrs Mollard seen her, she would 
instantly have attributed every subsequent death 
on the farm, from a chicken upwards, to Cathie’s 
presence on that particular evening. 

At the repetition of the signal Bessie appeared at 
the door, glancing round with wide open eyes, in 
which terror distinctly found a place. She had 
grown into a pretty Devonshire lassie, with hardly 
sufficient character in her face to attract admirers 
strongly. Catching sight of Cathie, she nodded 
hurriedly and withdrew. 

Activity at Stibb Farm, at this hour, was over 
for the day. The great kitchen was spotless from 
floor to ceiling. The dresser was filled with shining 
china from end to end. Underneath it stood the 
bell-metal skillet, “zo bright as a new zovereign,” 
as the farm girl said when she polished it that 
Saturday and returned it proudly to its place. As 
for the drop-leaf table and the chairs, you could 
see your face in them. 

Mrs Mollard was in the act of putting her 
youngest boy Johnny to bed, and was dragging 
him, an unwilling victim, to the tub. 

Bessie came in softly, and passing rapidly across 
the kitchen, unhung her hat from the nail behind 
the door. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


105 


“ Wheer be gwin ? ” inquired Mrs Mollard. 
“Come on now, Johnny, my dear, when I tell ’ee.” 

“Just out a bit, mother,” said Bessie, trying to 
speak without betraying her excitement — for com- 
munication with Cathie was always exciting, be- 
cause forbidden. 

“ Ees, d’rec’ly work be over, that’s’”all you think 
on,” said Mrs Mollard, relinquishing Johnny on the 
more urgent demands of the baby, who had just 
awakened in its cradle. “ Go fetch the chil’ — sharp 
now!” she cried, as Johnny’s fat legs disappeared 
hastily in the direction of the mud pies he had been 
making in the yard. 

“ I want vor go out,” said Bessie, the tears coming 
into her blue eyes. 

“What’s the matter wi’ my little me-aid.?” Mr 
Mollard’s big jovial form filled the doorway, and 
Johnny, forgetting his mud pies, began to swarm up 
his gaitered legs. 

“’Er wants vor go out! ’Er be always gaddin’ 
round!” cried Mrs Mollard indignantly. 

“Me-aids will be me-aids, do what us will wi’ 
mun — eh, Bessie.? Let ’er go ’long, mother.” 

“ Ees, ’er can go ’long while I bide an’ work ! ” 
cried Mrs Mollard, querulously. 

“’Er time ’ll come, mother — ’er time ’ll come.” 

“ You properly spoil the me-aid. I can’t ’ave 
Liza nether, ’er’s busy wi’ the ironin’. Go ’long wi’ 
*ee, then ! I’d be proper ashamed o’ meself always 
trapesin’ round. You’m eatin’ all your white bread 


io6 


’POSTLE FARM. 


now, sure enough ! ” Then, kissing the baby, 
“ What’s my little booty want ? Bless’n ! zo ’e 
was ! ” 

The baby showed its appreciation of this speech 
by slapping its mother’s worn face. But she only 
kissed it the more rapturously and blessed it the 
more fondly. If there be a bit of good temper 
floating round a house, these lucky little people 
get it. 

“Go ’long, my gal!” said Mr Mollard, nodding 
to Bessie. “ I’ll ’elp mother. Come along then, 
Johnny; zee if vather can vind wheer the ’ooks an’ 
buttons be.” 

He lifted the little boy on his knee, and began 
fumbling about with his rough clumsy fingers. 

Bessie, who had needed no second bidding to be 
gone, was hurrying over the hill towards ’Postle 
Farm. Cathie was waiting in a little hollow, and 
the two girls proceeded together. 

“’Ave ’ee got picturs vor show me?” inquired 
Bessie eagerly. 

“ Ees ; finer nor any us ’ave ad.” 

“ Wheer do ’ee get mun from ? ” 

“ What’s that si’nify ? ” 

“ Liza thinks ’ee witch mun in.” 

“ ’Ave ’ee told Liza ? I an’t got no patience with 
a little zaney like you be 1 I’ll witch ’ee, sure ’nough, 
if ’ee go blatherin’ ! ” 

Cathie had stopped, and was glaring down at 
Bessie, who cowered back from her. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


107 


“ I won’t tell ’er no more,” she whimpered. 

“ I know ’ee won’t : ’ee tongue’ll rot in ’ee ’ead if 
ee do.” 

“ ’Twon’t rot vor tellin’ Liza, v/ill’t, Cathie ? ” 

“’Twill if I’ve a mind for let it,” said Cathie, who 
found her reputation for carrying the evil eye not 
unuseful at times. 

“I ain’t gwin no farder with ’ee!” said Bessie, 
stopping short. “You’m a cruel wicked maid!” 

“No, I b’ain’t,” said Cathie, coaxingly drawing 
Bessie’s arm through her own. “ See ! I’ll tell ’ee 
some’at. ’Fore nextest Sunday ’ee’ll ’ave a new ’at.” 

“ ’Ow do ’ee know ? ” cried Bessie. 

“ I knows.” 

“ I mind when I was to school, ’ee telled me I’d 
get a drashin’ ’vore day was out — an’ I did, sure 
’nough. But this what ’ee’m sayin’ be proper. 
What be the colour o’ the ’at, Cathie ? ” 

“ Oh, drat ’ee ! I dunno — pink roses.” 

Bessie clasped her hands in rapture, but her 
companion’s quick pace had made her breathless, 
and she could ask no more questions as they 
ascended the hill. 

“ Be it pink roses, sure ? ” she inquired, the moment 
they stopped at the door of ’Postle Farm. 

“You ask another question an’ thiccy ’at’ll never 
rache ’ee,” said Cathie, putting up a warning finger. 
Then she led the way upstairs and threw open 
a door to the right. It led into a large low 
room with two windows looking out on the hill- 


I08 ’POSTLE FARM. 

side. A mass of nodding roses framed the land- 
scape. A mahogany table, with a great pot of 
long- stalked phlox in the centre, stood between 
the windows. An old-fashioned arm-chair com- 
pleted the furniture. 

It is strange to think a charm should hang about 
such a room as this. Yet charm there undoubtedly 
was. Even Bessie stared a moment. Then she 
asked — 

“ Where be the bed to ? ” 

“This be my bes’ parlour,” said Cathie, with a 
grand air. “ I thought Td jus’ show it to ’ee.” 

She took one of the books from the table. 

“Come ’long,” she said, “in t’other room. I’ll 
show ’ee this.” 

“ Let’s look to mun in ’ere,” said Bessie. 

“No; this be my room, an’ I don’t ’How no one 
in it.” 

“ But a parlour be always for company,” objected 
Bessie. 

“ Ees, an’ I keeps it for company,” said Cathie, 
with a curious smile. 

“What kind o’ company?” asked Bessie. “No 
one comes along of ’ee Barrin’ me.” 

“I ’as my company for all that,” said Cathie. 
“ Ladies an’ genellmen — real betterment folk — 
what’s dressed finer nor any’ne you ever seed.” 

Bessie looked incredulous. “You be crazy, 
Cathie ! ” was all she said. 

“ Come ’long into my bedchumber,” said Cathie 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. IO9 

“an’ jus’ tell me what be wrong wi’ un, then I’ll 
show ’ee the picturs.” 

Bessie left the best parlour reluctantly. Once 
in the bedroom, she walked round it with a criti- 
cal air. 

“The jug did oughter stan’ in the basin, in 
coorse!” she exclaimed, stopping in front of the 
wash-handstand. 

“ Well, put un in,” said Cathie. 

“An’ the pillerses oughter be inside o’ bed quilt.” 

“ Put ’n in,” said Cathie. 

“An’ these ’ere clothses didn’t oughter be lyin’ 
round. They oughter be in the chesties. Mother’s 
got a cousin what lived lady’s-maid up to the 
Hall ’fore Lady Frobisher died, an’ ’er saith ’er was 
that nice-like, an’ ’ad all the beautifullest things — 
silkses an* satinses for ’er handkshers — an’ all laces 
an’ velvets an’ sichlike stored away wi’ lavender 
in great oak chesties what come to the fam’ly 
’underds years agone.” 

“Lavender? What! same as is on bushes? 
Well, us needn’t be great ladies ’fore us can ’ave 
that!” said Cathie, with scorn. 

“No, but us can’t ’ave the velvets an’ laces an’ 
oak chesties ’underds o’ years in fam’ly.” 

“ Grandfer’s got a piece o’ chinee downstairs wi’ 
his great - grandfather’s name on un. Mad’ o’ 
purpose ! ” 

“ Ees, I’ve seed mun ; but that ain’t same as 
velvets an’ laces an’ oak chesties.” 


no 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Cathie did not dispute the point. “ Be the 
chumber right?” she asked. 

“ Well, ’e oughter ’ave muslin cortains, ’ee know. 
Why,” she exclaimed, ’ee’ve got a tooth-brush! 
Do ’ee use mun ? ” 

Coorse I does — reglar ! ” said Cathie. 

“Basie Beer’s a -got one too,” remarked Bessie. 
“ Vather says gin Xmas comes I shall ’ave one too. 
Do ’m lasty well ? ” 

“ Oh ees, I s’pose, ’ccordin’to,” replied Cathie. 
“Come on now, an’ I’ll a-show ’ee the kitchen.” 

There were no faults of cleanliness to be found 
in the kitchen, and the inspection being over, 
Cathie said — 

“ Now ’ee can go an’ look to the book, an’ when 
’ee’ve a-looked to mun ’ee can go ’ome. ” 

“All right,” said Bessie. “An, Cathie, be sure 
about they pink roses?” 

The three men entering the kitchen at that 
moment, Cathie made no answer, and Bessie 
hastily disappeared. 

Cathie remained in the kitchen until she heard 
Bessie leave the house. Then, while the men sat 
dozing by the fire, she crept upstairs, changed her 
frock, and entered her “bes’ parlour.” She sat 
down quietly for a moment or two ; then rising, 
she stealthily drew from out an old oak chest 
a violin. She handled it tenderly, fingering the 
strings with a loving touch. Then, standing in 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


Ill 


the centre of the room, she drew her bow across 
them and burst into a melody that grew faster and 
faster as she played, then softer and softer, and 
faded away into silence. 

Cathie was not, of course, an accomplished player, 
but there was something strangely arresting in the 
power with which she handled the instrument. 

She seated herself when she had finished, and 
laying down her violin and bow, remained for a 
few moments silent and with closed eyes. Then, 
dropping on her knees and raising her beautiful 
eyes to heaven, she cried in a low impassioned 
voice — 

“ Angels of light, come to me ! If 'ee leave 
me, what be I for do } Raise me to some’at 
higher nor what I be. God hear me ! Amen.” 

Her head sank forward on her breast, and she 
remained motionless. A broad silver band of 
moonlight swept through the curtainless window 
and played like purest thoughts about her. She 
opened her eyes suddenly, and sprang to her feet 
with a cry of ecstasy. 

“ Oh, Lord, ’ee’ve sent mun ! ” she said in an 
awestruck whisper, and dropping into her chair, 
she remained quietly seated, apparently watching 
the movements of people about the room. But 
though she turned her head sometimes in one 
direction, sometimes in another, sometimes faintly 
smiling, sometimes bending forward as if to catch 
the faintest sound, sometimes raising her head 


112 ’POSTLE FARM. 

upwards or shaking it with a little sigh, the 
strangest part was that through it all her eyes 
remained closed. 

Her wonderful imagination peopled the room 
with airy forms and agitated the air with gentle 
words, which sometimes warned her and some- 
times inspired her with hope, but always breathed 
to her of love and patient striving. 

Poor “ Crazy Cathie ” ! She had her wonderful 
moments of exaltation, the God-given compensa- 
tion to a rich and beautiful nature cramped within 
unnatural limits. 

For fully half an hour she remained in this 
transport of happiness ; then her face suddenly 
fell. It was almost as if a light shining from 
within had been turned down. 

“ They be gone ! ” she said, opening her eyes 
and looking round the room. The moonlight 
streamed on the bare floor and unpapered walls. 
Cathie gave a profound sigh ; then suddenly her 
face became again radiantly illuminated. 

“Ah, but they’ve been!” she cried, clasping her 
hands. “ I thought they’d gone for ever, an’ my 
’eart was broke. But they’ve been ; an’ though 
I can’t see ’em now no more, I feels ’em. They 
telled me truly when they spoke o’ God. He 
don’t forget us, though He seem’th for hide His 
face a while.” 


That night, as Crazy Cathie lay on her white bed, 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. II3 

a painter might have died to give the radiance of 
her face, and be glad that even with his life he had 
bought it. For no one could look upon her as 
she slumbered and remain as vile as before ; no 
one gazing upon her could believe that the body- 
holds but a transient soul, and life — Immortal Life 
— is extinguished with the grave. The magnifi- 
cent design of the Creator was written on the 
face of this woman, and no man looking down 
on her could doubt it. There was that on Crazy 
Cathie's face that gave the lie direct to the cark- 
ing materialist, and opened for earth a sudden 
vista of heaven. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

As time passed Grandfer noticed the improved 
appearance of the dinner-table. 

" Volks is got zo vine nowadays ! ” he said, with 
as close an approach to a grumble as he ever got. 
“Why, I can mind the time when mother ’d tak’ 
a girt crock full o’ tetties an’ drow mun ins towzer 
apern on’s table ; an’ them as liked mixed tetties 
took an’ mixed mun, ’long o’ goat’s milk — or butter- 
milk gin us ’ad it vor spare ; an’ them as liked mun 
as mun was, would tak’ an’ peel mun an’ dip in’s zalt 
an’ eat mun. Us ’adn’ no dishes, noor knives noor 
voorks ; an’ themmy zalt-zellar things — why, bless 
my zoul, us never thought on sichlike ! an’ what was 
good ’nough vor my mother’s good ’nough for me, 
an’ them as comes after me, I reckon.” 

He caught his breath with a sudden thought as 
he glanced at the girl, and he patted her shoulder 
as she came near him with a pile of plates. 

“ But you do as you’m a mind vor do, ma-deear,” 
he said kindly, and he sank into a reverie. “Oh 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


II5 

Loord, Loord ! ” he muttered, with a heavy sigh, as 
he turned to his food. 

“ What be thinkin’ on, Grandfer } ” said Cathie. 

He pulled himself together. 

“Why, I was jus’ a-thinkin’ ’ow ’ard times used for 
be, — when us ’ad the barley bread wi’ the girt long 
barley ears in’t. Volks wasn’t so nice-stomached 
then, bless ’ee! An’ tay — bless my life, us couldn’ 
’ford no tay ! Us picked organ, an’ mad’ organ tay. 
I mind, ’vore Annie were born, the missus took an’ 
bought a ounce ’gainst the ’casion-like, an’ kep’ it 
in’s cupboard under lock an’ key. ’Twas a strugglin' 
time; an’ I mind ’ow, the day after Annie were born, 
’er zat up in’s bed an’ went to gloverin’. Theer warn’t 
no machines in them days; ’er zewed mun wi’ vinger 
an’ thumb, an’ got but shillin’ the dozen, an’ ’ad vor 
pay a ’oman penny a dozen vor carr’ mun in to shop; 
zo theer warn’t much profit in’t. Why, wages was 
but six shillin’ a-week, an’ that wi’ wheat a guinea a 
bag ! Us ’ad to reckon, an’ then go ’vore vor vang the 
wages ; an’ times I mind when theer warn’t nothin’ 
vor vang. ’Twas ’ard times, sure ’nough! Why, us 
’ad vor zell ’alf the pig vor buy zalt vor zalt down 
t’other ’alf! Ees, us ’ad zo, zalt was that dear! 
Ah, ma-deear, they was times!” 

“Then I dunno what ’ee’m grumblin’ at now,” 
said Cathie cheerfully. 

“No, ma-deear, ’twas a slip o’ tongue. I don’t 
like vor zee ’ee put things ’vore in a unstomachable 
manner, don’t go vor think I doy!” He glanced 


Ii6 


*POSTLE FARM. 


round the kitchen. “I like vor zee ’ee ’ave’t all 
natty-like — an’ a bit grand-like too” — stroking 
the rough tablecloth with his fingers — “ when ee’ve 
a mind vor’t.” 

As over the dwelling - rooms of Tostle Farm a 
change had come, so also had a change come over 
the face of the girl. Its dark lowering look was 
giving place to the earlier expression of her child- 
hood. With knowledge, the darkness that had 
wrapped her mind after her accident proved itself 
no darkness at all, but merely obliteration of 
memory over a certain number of years. A great 
joy filled her heart as she recognised — with the 
opportunity of proving it — the strength and quick- 
ness of her brain. Her beauty gave her no plea- 
sure, but her power to understand and to fix 
facts in her memory gave her a joy that was 
supreme. 

For Temple came often now, in the guise of 
teacher. 

B’ain’t I quick at lamin’ ? ” she cried one day, 
after she had repeated all he had taught her. She 
clapped her hands like a child for joy. “ I’ll be a 
scholard yet, won’ I ? ” 

Why do you want so much to learn ? ” he asked. 

“Oh, I mus’, I mus’, I mus’ !” she cried. “I want 
for know things! It’s right inside me that I do! 
If ’ee killed the feelin’, ’ee’d kill me — that^a ’ow *tis I 
I be jus’ bound up wi’ it ! ” 

“ But what good is it going to do you ? 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 

She looked at him with scorn and a little dis- 
appointment. 

“ There ! ’ee tak’ all the love o’ life straight out 
o’ me. You’m foolish, that’s what you be ! ” she 
finished, evidently finding relief in this statement. 

“I didn’t mean to be foolish.” 

“Couldn’ ’elp o’t, I s’pose,” she said, with a re- 
signed sigh. 

“ I don’t see it was so very foolish,” he answered, 
nettled. “ After all, what use is it } ” 

“ Oh, go ’long ! ” she answered angrily, then added, 
“ If there ain’t no use in it, why do ’ee come ? ” 

He was silent. 

“ What be there things to larn on, if there b’ain’t 
no manner o’ use in knowin’ of ’em ? ” she continued. 
“ But there ! I can’t tak’ no more pleasure in’t ! ” 
she finished, looking with disheartened eyes across 
the sandy banks of the river. 

“ God forbid I should discourage you ! ” he cried 
impulsively. 

*‘Oh, don’ matter,” she answered, moving slowly 
towards the farm. 

Don’t take any notice of what I said ! ” he cried, 
stepping in front of her. “ With a brain like yours 
you might attain to anything ! ” 

She shook her head. 

“ I don’ want no one to larn me an’ think ’tis ol’ 
foolishness. No,” she continued, as if to herself, 
“you b’ain’t the right un. Some one else, I s’pose, 
mus’ larn me — for I be gwin for larn, ’ee know,” 


ii8 


’POSTLE FARM. 


she finished, raising her head with a fine determina- 
tion, and turning her dark eyes full upon him. 

He met them humbly. 

“ I made a mistake,” he said ; “ I see it now.” 

“ No, no,” she answered impatiently, “ I mad’ the 
mistake! ’Ee b’ain’t the right ’un for teach me. 
I mus’ larn o’ some other body.” 

“ No, you mustn’t ; you must learn of me. I re- 
tract what I said. I believe good will come to you 
through knowledge.” 

“ Zartain zure ? ” she asked wistfully. 

“ Zartain zure,” he answered, smiling. 

’Ee know, I s’pose. I’ve a-got avil eye ^ ” 

“No, I didn’t. But I’m not afraid of it.” 

“ When I was a chil’ they telled me I ’ad ; an* 
zure ’nough I ’ave. I knows it now. I’ve a-tried 
un.” 

“ Whom did you try it on ? ” 

“ What odds be that to ’ee } ” 

“ Well, don’t try it on me,” he answered, laughing. 

“ Coorse not 1 ” she answered ; but she laughed a 
little wickedly. 

“ Shall I come to-morrow and teach you about 
the sun and the stars? You’re always asking about 
them.” 

“Please ’ee self,” she answered, passing up the 
hill. 

Temple looked after her. 

“Gracious, any way,” he muttered, as he turned 
back to the boat. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


One Sunday afternoon Miah Sluman hung over 
the farm gate watching the sheep feeding con- 
tentedly on the hillside. 

There was nothing in his dress to show the day 
— nothing in any part of the farm that seemed to 
point to it, except the farm -horses enjoying their 
weekly rest under a warm October sun, and making 
the best of it by having a thorough good feed, so 
far as the somewhat scanty pasture would allow 
of it. 

Miah Sluman was thinking. His mind was cast 
on matrimony. 

For five years he had been a lone widower. 
It was not tender memories of his deceased wife 
that had kept him so long from choosing another 
to take her place. When she first died he had 
had a dim notion of taking Cathie to himself, as 
soon as she should reach a marriageable age. But 
the girl’s strong temper and indifferent domestic 
abilities had soon changed the current of his 
thoughts. He had remainea ingle because, had 


120 


’POSTLE farm. 


he chosen a wife, he would have had to pay for 
her board at the farm, or have moved elsewhere. 

Lately, however, his old project had again come 
uppermost in his mind. Cathie was old enough 
now to be married, and her domestic abilities had 
improved conspicuously. Crazy she undoubtedly 
was, but not crazy enough to matter particularly; 
and as for the evil eye — well, he would risk that 
to inherit old Grandfer’s savings. 

For many weeks he had changed his rough 
humour towards her. He never complained now 
if the meals were not ready or the work not done. 
On market days, once or twice, he had even come 
back with a confection for her; and on one mem- 
orable occasion he had stood outside a draper's 
window fingering the shilling in his pocket for 
over half an hour before he could decide to part 
with it and bring her home a fairing. This fairing 
Cathie had promptly thrown behind the fire. She 
hated the man Miah with the whole force of her 
nature. 

As he leant over the gate he pondered the mat- 
ter over slowly and cautiously. When at length 
he turned towards the house his mind was made up. 
He would ask Cathie in marriage. First, however, 
he must win over Grandfer, for the old man had 
more influence over the girl than any one else 
had. 

Grandfer was sitting by the fire, peacefully dozing, 
when Miah entered the kitchen. Miah sat down 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


Ill 


with a great clatter, and the old man awoke with 
a start. 

I was just about thinkin’ on Cathie,” said Miah. 

“Ha!” said Grandfer. 

“ ’Er’ll 'ave to be married shoortly, an* then what 
be us to do ? ” 

“ Time ’nough — time *nough,” said Grandfer. 

“Us mus’ ’ave a woman -volk vor mind the 
ple-ace.” 

“ Ees, ees,” said Grandfer uneasily. 

“Betterways let the me-aid marry of me. The 
farm lease ’ll come on ’er when ’ee’m dade an’ buried ; 
an’ eef I marry ’er, zee, that’ll zettle it all oop vine.” 

“ ’Er won’t never marry,” said the old man, whom 
the speech had evidently disturbed. 

“ ’Er ain’t no proper kin to me,” continued Miah. 

Grandfer looked up with a start. 

“Us can go into Registry Orfice, an’ no one 
wouldn’ gainzay it — more ’special if us went over 
so var as Fammelsee. No one don’ know nothin’ 
’bout us over theer.” 

“’Ow can ’ee zay ’er ain’t no proper kin to ’ee, 
when ’ee know as ’ow ’ee wife was blood-relationed 
aunt to the me-aid.^” inquired Grandfer. “What 
be talkin’ ’bout? Be gwin vor get ’eeself clapped 
i’ prison ? ” 

“No one wouldn’ know nothin’ on’t,” said Miah, 
sulkily. “Us could go to Registry Orfice.” 

“No, no!” said Grandfer; “no kith an’ kin o’ 
mine but enter the church proper, an’ ’as their 


122 


'POSTLE FARM. 


bannses a-hollied up in a proper manner. God 
sakes, man, what’s my fam’ly cornin’ to?” 

“Blow me eef I can zee aught disrespectable in 
Registry Orfice!” 

“ Well, Registry Orfice or church don’t mak' no 
manner o’ differ’nce. The me-aid won’t ’ave ’eel 
Why, ’er’d scorn ’ee ! ” said the old man, with a fine 
scorn in his own voice. 

“ Scornful cats mus’ eat rotten mice ! ” said Miah, 
disagreeably. 

“’Er won’t ’ave ’ee!” said Grandfer, stretching 
out his legs and trying to look as if he considered 
the question comfortably disposed of. It irritated 
Miah ; his temper rose. 

“ By , I’ll mak’ ’er I ” he cried. 

“ ’Er never won’t,” repeated Grandfer ; “ an’ what’s 
more, Miah, I don’ mean ’er should ! ” 

Miah leant forward and fixed his nasty narrow 
eyes on Grandfer. 

“Look ’ee ’ere,” he said, “’er’ll ’ave for do’t! 
’Tain’t no manner o’ use vor ’ee to ob]tct — ’er’ll 
’ave to come — zee? Thiccy me-aid ’ll be mine 
avore month’s out. ’Ee’d betterways answer oop, 
'er shall, an’ let ’er be married decent. When my 
mind’s a-mad’ oop, it tak’s more ’n ol’ dotty like 
you be vor turn ’n, zee ? ” 

Grandfer began to tremble violently. He feared 
his son-in-law. He loved the girl. For the love 
of her, though his tongue clove to the roof of his 
mouth, he raised his fist, exclaiming — 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


123 


“Miah Sluman, while this tramblin’ body keeps 
my zoul, the me-aid shan’t go to ’ee wi’ my consent. 
I’ll keep ’er from ’arm while I draw my breath, zo 
’elp me God Almighty!” 

An ugly darkness settled on the younger man’s 
face. 

“You’ve a-give yer word,” he said, rising; “now 
tak’ the consequences o’t ! ” 

He moved towards the door. 

“ If ’ee ’arm of ’er,” cried Grandfer, tottering to 
his feet and speaking with strong passion, “ God 
Almighty blast an’ curse ’ee!” 

He tried to follow his son-in-law to the door, 
but his trembling limbs refused to carry him. 

Meanwhile, far out on the lonely uplands of the 
farm Catherine wandered. And the October sun 
shone down on her ripe beauty, and she stretched 
out her beautiful arms and sobbed — 

“Teach me the meanin’ o* life! Oh, let me 
un’erstan’ it I 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“ Pm getting tired of this place, Cocksey ! ” 

The speaker was a good-looking girl of about 
twenty. She stood at the window of a picturesque 
cottage overlooking the river Teel. The rain, 
which descended in a light shower, gave a dreari- 
ness to a view that one could well imagine beautiful 
in fine weather. 

Cocksey looked up with a start. “ Oh dear ! oh 
dear ! ” she said. 

Any one having once seen Cocksey would not 
dream of asking why she was called Cocksey. She 
was a woman on the very shady side of thirty, and 
had the appearance of a worn-out old cock with 
its tail feathers gone. 

“ Oh dear ! oh dear ! ” she said again. She had 
dropped her fancywork, and looked the very image 
of despair. 

The girl looked at her, amused. 

“I don’t think, you know, this place altogether 
agrees with you. That’s why I am leaving.” 

“Oh, my dear, pray, pray don’t leave on my 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


125 


account! I assure you, to me the place is quite 
a little haven of refuge. WeVe been here nearly 
six months now — six blessed, peaceful months! 
Oh ! Madge, my dear, don^t leave on my account ! 
I assure you, no place ever agreed with me so 
well before.” 

“ I’m sure it doesn’t ; you only think so. Your 
hair, I am certain, is redder since we came, and 
you’ve ever so many more freckles. No, Cocksey, 
we must move.” 

Cocksey sighed. “Since you say it,” she said 
resignedly, and she took up her fancywork again, 
running on to herself as she did so — 

“All the boxes — and the bills too. Ten large 
boxes — and those dreadful packages — the two dogs 
— the cat — the six kittens — and that awful monkey ! 
All to move. Oh dear ! oh dear ! I dread it worse 
and worse each time. Madge, my dear, promise 
me one thing — you will get rid of some of the cats, 
so that we needn’t pack them all.!* You see, it 
isn’t only the packing — it’s when we get to the 
new place — you know they never stay 1 Some one 
always lets them out just before they’re used to 
the new grounds. Oh dear ! moving would be 
nothing — I mean, comparatively speaking, nothing 
— if it weren’t for the cats ! ” 

“I’m quite prepared to take the risk.” 

“But, my dear, it’s useless to talk like that. 
You know, I feel the responsibility so terribly I 
I must feel it, whatever you are kind enough 


126 


'POSTLE FARM. 


to say! My dear, are you quite sure you must 
move ? ” 

“Yes; IVe got an idea.” 

Cocksey groaned. 

“ I am going to farm. I am not going to be 
a lady farmer, but a real ordinary farmer : live in 
the kitchen, you know — wash my own clothes — 
drive into market — wear aprons — make the butter 
— milk my own cows ” 

Here Cocksey’s exclamations, which had been 
growing louder and louder, broke into a wail, and 
Madge had to stop in the middle of her catalogue. 

“ Don’t you like the idea } ” she asked. 

“ Every one gets worse ! ” said Cocksey. “ What 
will all the people say 

“I shan’t ask them to say anything.” 

“But that’s just when they say most.” 

“Now, Cocksey, haven’t you lived with me ever 
since I began to learn spelling.?” 

Cocksey shook her head, but not in dissent. It 
was merely in melancholy remembrance of all she 
had suffered during that period. 

“Well, you really ought to know by this time 
I don’t care what people say. I never have.” 

“ Oh, but you will ! ” cried Cocksey, rocking 
herself to and fro. “You will, some day — and 
then, perhaps, it’ll be all too late. Oh, my 
dear! I feel so melancholy, pray, pray draw up 
the blind I Let us have all the light there is. 
These dark days are sadly depressing. Oh, 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


127 


Madge, my dear, if you only could be like other 
people ! ” 

“ ril try," said Madge. 

“ No, no ! it wouldn’t do either ; you’d spoil your- 
self. Oh dear ! ten large boxes — and all those 
packages — and the live stock! When’s the move 
to be, my dear > ’’ 

“ Oh, as soon as possible. I tell you what ! ’’ catch- 
ing the companion by her arm; “it’s wet — let’s 
begin packing now!’’ 

Madge’s sudden freaks were a constant source 
of anxiety to Cocksey. But she now faced the 
inevitable as usual, and followed her charge from 
the room with a cheerful tripping step. 

It was not until she had retired for the night 
that she wished for the hundred and twentieth time 
Madge would conquer the dislike she felt for her 
stepmother, and take up her proper position again 
in her old home at Fardwortly Court. But of this 
there was little hope. Sir Robert Montague was an 
affectionate father; but second wives exert a won- 
derful influence over their spouses, and the poor 
man had to see his son’s visits grow fewer, and 
his daughter fly the house, without daring to offer 
a protest 


CHAPTER XXV. 


On the Sunday afternoon, when Miah started out 
in search of Cathie, he had to walk some con- 
siderable distance before his efforts were rewarded. 
At last he saw the girl’s tall figure silhouetted 
against the sky as she walked along the edge of 
the hill. 

He climbed up the hill along the side of the 
low stone wall. At the gate at the top they met 
face to face. They looked at each other a long 
while. Then the man’s eyes dropped. 

“What be after?” said Cathie. 

“My dear,” said Miah, in a wheedling tone, “I 
be after you ! One way an’ ’nother, ’ee know I 
be gettin* jus’ maze over ’ee!” 

Cathie threw back her head and laughed. 

“Dear life!” she cried, “the zight these men 
volk think o’ theirsels!” 

“Don’t ’ee’ anger me!” cried Miah. “By , 

I’ll mak’ ’ee suffer for’t if ’ee do ! ” 

She looked at him a moment. 

“ Ees,” she said, “ ’ee speak vine ! But ’ee aren’t 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 1 29 

never ’armed me for all that — an ’ee never will! 
’Ee dursn’t!” 

She threw up her head proudly as she spoke. 

“ Dursn’t I ? ” he snarled, and he caught her by 
the wrist. 

She wrenched herself free. She was white. 

“Miah Sluman,” she said, “eef ’ee go vor clap 
’ee ’and on me, ’twill be the avilest day ’ee ever 
zeed. I’ll tell ’ee some’at more as I’m jus’ on 
tollin’. ’Ee’ll feel mighty queer when ’ee lie down 
to-night in wracksles o’ pain. That’ll teach ’ee 
kep’ scarce o’ me, I reckon.” 

Miah was a superstitious man. “What do ’ee 
mean ? ” he faltered. 

“’Vore ’tis sunset ’ee’ll know,” she answered, 
turning towards the farm. 

“ A tricksy avil-eyed witch ’ee be ! ” he muttered, 
and for the life of him he could not molest her 
any further, so strong and deep-rooted was his 
superstition. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


“Cathie, ma-deear,” called Grandfer through the 
open kitchen door, “tak’ Vore the pigs wheer 
the oakses be. Theer be scores an’ scores o’ oak- 
masses theer. They’ll pick up what’ll zatisfy 
mun more nor ’underds o’ other me-at. Drive 
mun ’y^ore, like a good me-aid, wull ’ee.^” 

“Drat they ol’ pegsies!” muttered Cathie. She 
had intended meeting Temple, but the pigs would 
take her in the opposite direction. 

But Cathie was fond of animals, no matter if it 
were only a grunting sow. When she threw open 
the doors of the several sties, and the pigs came 
out, some sedately and demurely, some with frisks 
and capers and squeals of youthful joy, she en- 
tered into their feelings with a ready sympathy. 

“ Bless mun ! ” she cried, as the smaller ones 
capered out of the yard with a frisk of their 
curly tails. “ Mus’ be vine vor un vor get out 
an’ 'bout bit. Eef I was a-clemmed up in bit 
pigs-’ouse, ’twould come cruel ’ard ; an’ zo it do to 
they, I’ll be bound!” 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 131 

This marching with the pigs seriously delayed 
her, for they ran many times in the wrong direc- 
tion. With happy laughter, and Shep to help her, 
she chased them back, forgetting for the time 
being her appointment with Temple. 

When at last she greeted him, it was at an un- 
propitious moment. The little boat shooting across 
the river had more than once attracted Miah’s 
attention, without its making any real impression 
on him, or arousing his suspicions. He noticed 
it riding on the tide now, and he stood still and 
watched. 

When there was an appointment it was Temple’s 
custom at this time to remain on the river - bank 
until Cathie walked before him to their trysting- 
place. This was always a sign that all was 
clear. 

Miah stood watching, more out of idle curiosity 
than because he had any suspicions. Presently 
Cathie came back from her walk with the pigs, 
and as she stepped on to the open hillside the 
stranger began to mount the hill. 

Then Cathie’s quick eyes fell upon Miah, and 
she turned back abruptly. At the same moment 
the figure on the hillside paused, and after a 
moment’s indecision returned to the boat. 

Miah’s slow brain could not at the moment 
catch the full significance of this ; but he had 
sense enough to move forward as though he had 
observed nothing. 


132 


'POSTLE FARM. 


He jumped on to the butt, and with a Get oop 
theer!” to Polly, rumbled out of sight. As soon 
as he had passed over the crest of the hill, he 
pulled the mare up, scrambled down, and stole 
stealthily forward under shadow of the hedge. 
When he came to a coign of vantage he paused. 
With his mouth gaping and his narrow eyes 
screwed up, he watched with bated breath. 

Yes ; it was as he expected. 

Cathie presei^tly appeared, and three minutes 
later she was joined by the other figure, and the 
two proceeded together till they were lost to 
sight in the shadow of the wood. 

From that moment his eye was on them. Of 
course there were days when he was on a distant 
part of the farm ; but whenever he was anywhere 
within range at all, his narrow eyes observed the 
river with a dogged persistence. At first his one 
idea was to tell Grandfer, and get Cathie into 
trouble. But he soon argued, what good would 
that do ? No ; he would hold his secret in readi- 
ness, so that he might some day, through it, force 
her into compliance with his own wishes. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“ Tell me, what do you think of all day ? ” 

Temple asked the question of Cathie as they sat 
on the hillside one afternoon. He had never again 
spoken of the uselessness of her learning. 

“ I think o* a whole mine o’ things,” she 
answered. 

“Do you ever think of me?” he asked. 

“ Times I do,” she answered, looking at him 
archly. “Does that please ’ee?” 

He felt the tables had been turned on him. He 
laughed. 

“ Well, yes ; to be quite candid, I think it does,” 
he answered. 

“ ’Tis queer of ’ee to tak’ up wi’ a maid like me,” 
she said. “I s’pose I be so powerful ignorant, an’ 
that amuses of ’ee.” 

“ You delight and charm me,” he answered, “ be- 
cause you are so full of simplicity and candour, 
and you have such charming fancies, and you are 
so marvellously anxious to learn. You love read- 
ing, you love music, you love the landscape, and 


134 


’POSTLE FARM. 


your old grandfather — things animate and in- 
animate ; your heart is brimful of love. You are 
always saying and doing things that upset all my 
previous calculations. You are a woman to your 
very finger-tips, and you are very beautiful, Cathie.” 

“Be I?” 

The praise of her character and her charms had 
pleased her, but, woman - like, tlie last assurance 
gave her the most pleasure of all. He exclaimed 
in surprise that he believed it had. 

She laughed up at him. 

“Beauty belong’th to a woman like,” she said. 
“Same 'ee’d sooner ’ear me say as ’ow you was 
a proper man, nor you was this, that, an’ t’other. 
’Tis nat’ral like for man for tak’ pleasure in ’is 
strength, an’ a woman in ’er looks. Ain’t that 
so?” 

“ It is,” he answered, smiling into her eyes. 

“ An’ I be beautiful ? ” she asked. 

“You are the most beautiful girl I have ever 
seen.” 

“ What ! I be ? Do ’ee mean it — true ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ More beautiful,” she asked, leaning a little 
towards him, “nor that pictur ’ee showed me in 
’ee breast coat-pocket?” 

Temple got up abruptly, and Cathie smiled to 
herself. 

“ Of course one always makes an exception of the 
woman one is going to marry,” he answered. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 1 35 

“ Be ’ee a-gwin for marry her you showed me irx 
the pictur ? ” 

“ I hope to some day, if she will have me.” 

“An' 'er be more beautiful nor what I be?” 

“Every man,” he said, with a forced smile, 
“thinks the woman he loves more beautiful than 
any other.” 

“ Does un ? ” said Cathie, interested. “ That be 
nice for 'er an’ nice for ’e, b’ain’t it?” 

“ Very.” 

“An’ ’ee think the lady in the pictur more 
beautiful nor me?” 

“ I did not say so,” he answered. 

“Fey ’ee did! ’Ee said ’ee was gwin for marry 
’er, an’ ’ee said as ’ow the woman a man loves 
be more beautiful to un nor any other. Now, 
be she more beautiful nor me?” 

“You are different,” he said. “I mean, you are a 
girl in a thousand. You, if you were in your right 
position, would be the belle of the season.” 

“ The bell ? My word I Should I ’ave for clip 
clap loud?” 

“Not that sort of bell at all,” he answered, 
frowning; “it’s a French word — a stupid vulgar 
one. 

“ Then why do ’ee use mun ? ” 

“To veil my meaning. I thought if I said ‘the 
beauty of the season ’ I might make you conceited. 
I don’t want to do that.” 

“ Ay, but ’ee’d ’ave for think a powerful deal o’ a 


'POSTLE FARM. 


136 

man ’fore ’ee’d heed what ’e said or feel any the 
more consequent for’t. You needn’t be afeared for 
speak out plain.” 

Then after a pause — 

“ So I be more beautiful nor what ’er be ? ” 

He got up. 

“What mak’s ’ee so jumpsome? Sit still.” 

“ You want to keep hearing the same thing over 
and over again.” 

“ I reckon I be like mos’ women volk in that.” 

He sat down again. 

“ B’ain’t I ? Now, ’eeVe a-knowed a sight more 
maids nor me. Tell me now, b’ain’t I like the rest 
o’ ’em?” 

“You are like no woman at all,” he said. 

Her face fell. 

“ B’ain’t I like a woman at all ? ” she asked. 

“You have gathered up more of nature than most 
women,” he said, absently opening and closing the 
book he held. “You are not like any one single 
woman I ever met. You are like a great many 
of the best of them rolled into one.” 

She was evidently pleased with this. The corners 
of her mouth twitched ; then she burst into a little 
peal of happy laughter. 

“ What are you laughing at ? ” asked Temple. 

“ Oh, some’at,” she answered. 

“ So I suppose — but what ? ” 

“ On a sight o’ things.” 

She laughed again, — that happy irresistible 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


137 


laugh that a woman tries to check by hiding 
her face in the coat of a pet animal or in the 
soft neck of a baby. It was irritating to be out- 
side of it, because it sounded as if it must be so 
delightful to be within. 

“ I may as well go,” said Temple, rising. 

She leaned forward and looked up at him. Her 
eyes were sparkling. 

“Be angered ? ” she asked. 

“No,” he answered, putting down his hands to 
hers to help her rise, “I’m not angry; but when 
you’re in this mood you’re maddening.” 

“Well, I won’t be, then! You sit down an’ read, 
an’ I’ll ’earken an’ won’t speak.” 

So he let go her hands, and threw himself on the 
ground beside her, and opening the book, began to 
read. 

At the end of every paragraph he raised his 
eyes and met hers. It was not to hiiii a compli- 
mentary meeting. She was looking right through 
him, oblivious of his presence, only hanging on the 
words that fell from his lips ; and as, of course, 
they were not original words, his position was not 
one calculated to raise his self-esteem. 

There came a day, however, when he raised his 
eyes from the book and found her looking far away 
across the hills. 

“ Cathie,” he said, “ you’re not attending.” 

“ Ees,” she said, “ I be.” 


138 


’POSTLE FARM. 


He returned to the book, but on looking up again, 
her eyes were still afar off. 

“What are you thinking of.^” he asked. 

“ I’m just ’earkenin’.” 

“Well, why don’t you look at me when you 
hearken ? ” 

“ Because I can come at it better nor when I do.” 

“Why? Am I distracting?” 

“ Bless my soul, you b’ain’t distractin' ! ” she 
answered ; “ ’tis the hills is ’elpsome.” 

And ever afterwards it was to the hills she 
looked, and he chafed under it. It was worse 
than being looked right through as if he were 
glass. 

One day she stopped him in his reading. 

“ Ah, I like thiccy ! ” she cried. “ Loved ’er same 
though her dress were ol’ 'nough an’ she ’adn’t 
no money.” 

“Dress and money don’t make any difference 
where love is.” 

“’Twould to me. I should want the bestest 
I could ’ave. ’Tis always the same ol’ story, b’ain’t 
it?” she continued slowly. “The love o’ man an’ 
maid. An’ the betterment folk reads it.” 

“Rather! He was our poet laureate — that is, 
the first poet in the land. ’Tis love makes the 
world go round, you know.” 

“ Ees ; I s’pose ’tis the spring in the cart, an’ 
when ’tis broke goes mortal uneasy.” 

“ Love comes in all manner of forms and shapes,” 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


139 


he soliloquised. “ There are no people in the whole 
world who affect us precisely in the same way. 
Even in a woman’s love for her children, though 
she love them equally, she loves them in different 
ways. How wonderful, when one thinks of it, is 
that great gift of Love which suits itself to the 
person and meets us in a thousand different guises ! 
— some of them so subtle in their difference that 
half of us patter through life unperceiving; just in 
the same way as the gradations of light and colour 
on the landscape pass unheeded by the eye that 
lacks the perception of beauty. Love has a thousand 
wings, a thousand eyes, a thousand sides.” 

Catherine laid her hand on his arm, and he 
turned to her. 

“ Don’t ’ee forget,” she said in a low voice, 
“however many starlings be in the flight, there’s 
one a bit ahead, a bit the first. There’s one as 
guides the lot o’ mun ! ” 

“ Of course there is always one supreme love,” 
he said. 

“’Twould be powerful awkward if us mistook 
the wrong one. There’s one love above all others 
one ’as to ’earken to, I reckon. Us may shove ’n 
off, but to the las’ ’e comes back like a tired chil* 
to the mother’s breas’ — ain’t that so ? ” 

“ What do you know about love ? ” he answered. 

“ What does a woman know about love ? ” she 
asked. “I reckon ’er was born wi’ the alphabet 
o’t, an* there’s a plenty for spell it out.” 


140 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ Cathie ! ” he cried, “ don’t throw yourself away. 
You could never be happy with one in your own 
station. You are so immeasurably above them, 
that marriage with one of them would only bring 
you pain. They would not understand you, dear 
— your life would be a wretched failure. Stay 
single all your life. Better the occasional com- 
panionship of some one who understands you — 
in a friendly happy way — than even the absorbing 
passion of a boor in your own class, — if they ever 
have absorbing passions, which I greatly doubt.” 

She looked at him straight. 

“There be men in my class can love as faith- 
ful as men in your’n,” she answered. 

He uttered an exclamation of impatience. 

“Faithful love!” he cried. “That is not what 
a girl of your calibre wants. Understanding, friend- 
ship, sympathy — these are what you want, Cathie, 
and what in me you have. I will always be your 
friend.” 

“ H’m,” she said ; and she paused a little. 

“That does not satisfy you,” and he uttered a 
profound sigh, and rose, pacing up and down the 
beaten path for a few minutes. 

“ I was trying to find out,” he said, coming back 
at last, “ whether what I said was disinterested or 
not. I thought perhaps I wanted too much for 
myself — you as my friend, Elsie as my wife. But, 
Cathie, the more I think, the more sure I feel that 
if you marry in the class to which you belong it 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. I4I 

will be your moral ruin. You couldnt be happy ! 
Besides, it’s sacrilege. It’s wicked to think of a 
rough ploughboy making love to you. It’s horrible 
to think of his coarse beery kisses, and his obtuse- 
ness over all the hundred and one charms I love so 
well. For, Cathie, I do love you, as I feel I should 
have loved a sister, had I ever been so fortunate as 
to possess one.” 

“ H’m,” she said again. “ Well, I’m a-gwin ’ome.” 

There was a little grimness round her mouth. 

“ I’ve offended you now,” he said. “ What have I 
said that you did not like ? ” 

“ Well, I’ll tell ’ee. I don’t like so much talk. I 
like more book-lamin’.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly; “ I’d no idea 
I was boring you.” And he returned to the book. 
But she laid her hand over the page, and looking 
upwards at him, laughing, she asked, Be angered ? ” 

“No, dear, not a bit,” he answered. 

Then he looked at the beautiful face with the 
clear eyes dancing rays of swift soft intelligence 
into his own; at the lips parted. 

He rose abruptly. 

“I am going!” he said, thrusting the book into 
his pocket; and a moment later he was half-way 
down the hill. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The next time Temple sat down on the hillside 
to read, he was careful not to talk. 

For three-quarters of an hour Cathie listened 
intently. Then suddenly she said — 

“ ’Ow *ee do a-kep ’ee eyes clapped on thiccy 
book ! ” 

*'Well,” he said, “last time you complained I 
talked too much, and neglected the ‘ book- 
larnin”!” 

“Theer now! Look to thiccy, takin' of me off! 
S’pose I was to tak’ ’ee off.^” and she began to 
mince her words. 

“You must not,” he said. “I love your Devon- 
shire. I like you just as you are, Cathie.” 

“Theer b’ain’t 'nough material for betterment, I 
s’pose } ” 

“ There’s plenty of material,” he answered ; “ but 
the question is ” 

He threw himself backwards on the grass, with 
his hands behind his head, and looked upwards at 
the blue sky. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


143 


"The question is ’’ he repeated. 

"Ees.J*” 

"Well, the question really is, Will this 'better- 
ment,' as you call it, bring you happiness? Is 
it wise? I’m beginning to be afraid, Cathie, this 
friendship of ours is a mistake.” 

He did not dare look at her as he said this. 

" So be I,” she answered promptly. " I be 
mortal zick o’t.” 

He sat up straight with astonishment. 

"You are sick of it!” he exclaimed. 

"Ees. B’ain’t ’ee?” 

"No,” he answered, picking at the grass and 
throwing the blades away, “ I’m not.” 

"Well, why be it a mistake, then?” she asked, 
after a pause. 

" Oh ! Well, of course all this reading puts new 
thoughts into your head — thoughts above the 
people with whom you are thrown — people of 
your own class. You’re not, for instance, so satis- 
fied with — Bill — isn’t that his name ? — as you 
were ? ” 

" Ees, I be. An’t mad’ a ’apporth o’ differ’nce.” 

"Then I am afraid our reading hasn’t improved 
you much,” he said drily. 

“An’t mad’ a speck o’ differ’nce,” she repeated 
stolidly — “not a speck. I always thought un fit 
for a zaney j an’ I think so same’s ever ! ” 

"You always had feelings above your station, 
you mean ? ” 


144 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“I mean what I say,” she answered. '‘What 
you mean when you alter’t up — that’s your 
business, not mine.” 

“ I believe you’re right,” he said slowly. “ I 
believe you were born with these aspirations. It 
isn’t,” he continued, looking away, “as if I put 
them into your head.” 

“ Bless ’ee life, no ! You an’t put nothin’ theer.” 

“At the same time, in the end I must make 
you less fitted for the station to which you 
belong.” 

She raised her chin a little. 

“ I can b’long to what station I’ve a mind for,” 
she answered. “ If I eddycate meself, I can b’long 
to betterment volk.” 

“Oh, my dear girl, you can’t!” he answered. 
“Don’t be so absurd. You were born a rough 
farmer’s daughter, and you’ll stay a rough farmer’s 
daughter.” 

She flushed. 

He was sorry. 

“I mean,” he said, “you can’t, don’t you know? 
Well, of course blood does these things, not 
education.” 

She rose angrily from her seat in the grass. 

“I telled ’ee I was mortal zick of ’ee — an’ I 
be I” she said, as she turned towards the farm. 

“You’re taking my meaning quite wrongly,” he 
said, springing after her. “Cathie!” 

But she walked on. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


145 


“ Oh, well, I can’t help it,” he said to himself, 
turning back. “ It’s better so.” 

The next minute he was at her side. 

“ Cathie, don’t go away like this ! ” 

“Well, I’ll ask o’ ’ee one thing,” she said. “Be 
there anything wrong o’ me, savin’ eddycation ? ” 
He thought a moment. He wanted to be quite 
candid. At last he said — 

“No — I don’t know that there is.” 

A flash of triumph shot from her dark eyes. 
“Will you come back and let me read some 
more to you?” he said, quite humbly. 

And they went back together. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


Miah was getting tired of waiting and watching, 
for nothing seemed to come of it. If he could 
only hear what they spoke about during those 
stolen interviews ! Of course it was all courting, 
and the book was just a “turn off.” Suppose 
they were already married ? Why, then all his 
waiting and watching were for nothing. 

“They b’ain’t marr’ed, that’s for zartain zure,” 
he said to himself one day. “ Nextest time I 
zees un smellin’ round *ere, I’ll get zo’s I ’ear 
zome’at — now I warrant I will ! ” 

Accordingly, one day he made a pretence of 
going off with Grandfer to market ; but, as soon 
as the cart had jogged out of sight, he got down, 
and crept back, and hid himself where he could 
get a good view of the river. What made the 
meetings easier to detect was that they were 
always made when the tide was in. 

He was rewarded, after half an hour’s waiting, 
by seeing the boat coming across. He shifted 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 1 47 

his position then, and got where he could see into 
the yard. 

Presently Temple entered. Miah gnashed his 
teeth when he saw how he was no stranger to the 
sheep-dog, who came leisurely forward and licked 
his hand. There must, then, have been many 
more meetings than he knew of. 

“Well, 'eeVe a-choosed a nice time vor mak’ a 
visit, when all the men volk be out a-brooard ! ” he 
heard Cathie say. 

“ All the better that, isn’t it ? ” 

“ All the better be’t, when Pve got varm an’ ’ouse 
both to onct vor zee after ? ” 

Temple smiled. 

“ I have seen you before under similar circum- 
stances,” he answered, “and it always struck me 
you left house and farm to see after itself.” 

She looked thoughtful for a moment. 

“ The women volk sloppy about zo ; ’pears to me 
they b’ain’t niver zatisfied, ’vore they watch the 
kettle boil, an’ stan’ over bread-pan vor zee the 
doughey rise. Now theers ’underds o’ work does 
all zo well whether you’m by or no. Zend ’ee 
thoughts ahead o’ ’ee, an’ work’s a-done wi’ clap o’ 
vingers ! ” 

“Altogether, you’ve reduced your day’s work to 
a science.” 

She frowned a little. 

“That’s right,” she said, “mak’ it up zo I can’t 
vollow of ’ee. Then ’ee’m zatisfied. Oh, what a 


148 


'POSTLE FARM. 


thing ’tis I can’t vollow the speech o’ a plain- 
minded gent like you be ! ” she cried, with sudden 
passion. “ Oh, if I could larn ! if I could larn ! ” 

Then they both passed out of earshot. 

That night, as Miah sat in the kitchen waiting for 
Grandfer, who was late in returning, his pent-up 
impatience could endure no longer. 

“ You’m a middlin’ me-aid,” he opened fire with. 

Cathie took not the faintest notice. 

“S’pose I was to tell ’ee zome’at ’ee didn’t 
know ? ” 

“ ’Ee might try,” responded Cathie. 

Then he changed his tone. 

“ Cathie, ma-deear, I be mortal vond o* ’ee ! ” 

She wheeled round upon him. 

“ I’ve a - telled ’ee afore,” she retorted angrily, 
“vor ’old ’ee ol’ blatherin’ tongue. You ol’ dustal, 
you ! ” 

“Ees, I’ve ’eld it. But I can blather an’ bring 
shame on ’ee if I choose. When ’ee go walkin’ out 
’long o’ spindle-shanked gent, I s’pose ee’ve a notion 
nobody don’t obsarve ’ee ? ” 

For a moment the blood seemed to freeze within 
her. She only showed she had heard by a curious 
stillness. Then recovering, she turned to him with 
a light laugh — 

“ Mortal sharp ’ee think ’eeself, don’t ’ee ? ’Tain’t 
no matter to me who zees un,” 

‘‘ What if I tell Grandfer ? ” sneered Miah. 

* I can spare ’ee the trouble an’ tell un myself.” 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


149 


Miah was taken aback. 

“A likely tale.” 

“ I will, then,” said Cathie. “ So soon as ’e comes 
in ril tell’n.” 

“ Oh, I dunno as ’ow Td do that,” said Miah. But 
he was so annoyed to find she cared very little, and 
that what he thought was a trump card was no 
trump card at all, that he slouched out to The Swan, 
where he got thoroughly drunk. 

*'’Er be zo slipp’ry as a eel, thiccy me-aid,” he 
muttered to himself. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


Temple was no longer now in a desperate hurry to 
leave Upcott Hall. He remained so long as he felt 
himself welcome. The old ennui had given place to 
pleasurable anticipation. He never knew how his 
interview with Cathie would end : whether they 
would quarrel, whether they would leave each other 
with that exhilarating sense of bonne camaraderie^ 
whether it would all be unsatisfactory or utterly 
delightful. 

When he left Upcott Hall he no longer dreaded 
the letter that would summon him back. On the 
contrary, if it were long delayed he watched for it 
anxiously. The tables truly had been turned. 

One afternoon in mid - May Temple, having 
gathered from the fact that for two days Lord 
Frobisher had not requested to see him his presence 
at Upcott Hall was no longer desired, rowed himself 
across the river to bid good-bye to Cathie. 

It was one of those azure spring days when the 
soul of the season seems gathered into half-a-dozen 
hours. The daisies starred the hillside, and over the 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


151 

mound made by the roots of a fallen tree the lambs 
frisked and gambolled. 

He ascended the hill and hung a white signal 
from the farthest elm — Judas, the last of the 
“apostles.” Then he walked towards the wood, 
and seating himself on a fragrant bank of primroses 
and violets, waited for Cathie. 

She was not long. She came with a sweet gaiety 
on her face. The sheep-dog gambolled at her heels. 

The moment her eye met Temple’s she asked — 

“ What be the matter wi’ ’ee ? ” 

“Nothing,” he answered. 

She looked at him keenly for a moment. 

“Well,” she said, “an’ what ’ve ’ee got for read 
to-day? Us ’ave a- finished t’other book, ’ee know.” 

“I know we have,” said Temple, “and I’m afraid 
it’s hardly worth while to begin another.” 

“ Can’t ’ee bide long ? ” 

“ Not very. Besides, I am going to-morrow ; and, 
of course, I never know for how long it will be.” 

“ Ah!” 

“You would like me to leave you some books? 
I’ve brought some, and I shall catechise you well 
when I come back.” 

“What be un about? Just ’ee read a line or 
two.” 

He opened one of the books and began reading. 
But it was no use ; he could not fix his attention. 
He threw the book aside. 

“ What is the use reading,” he cried, with sudden 


152 


'POSTLE FARM. 


vehemence, “when one’s heart is writing a life’s 
history? At least, of course I don’t mean that,” 
he added; “but I’m just one of those fellows who 
get used to certain people, and then I hate parting 
with them. I am like a child with a favourite toy 
— homesick without it.” 

He looked across at her with half-smiling candour 
that was not without effort. 

She answered the look with one of grave interest, 
almost as a large intelligent dog might watch a 
buzzing insect. 

“ Life comes cruel ’ard to ’ee, don’t it ? ” she asked. 
“ Seems to me as if ’e often wanted for do zome’at 
powerful good, an’ couldn’t. Ain’t that so ? ” 

“ I’m afraid it is.” 

“Seems to me,” she continued, “’e often see a 
path straight ahead o’ ’ee, an’ ’ee’m minded for tak’ 
un, an’ ’ee can’t.” 

Was she going to end by being the teacher and 
he the learner ? 

“ That is true,” he answered, accepting the situation 
— “ too true — miserably true ! ” 

“ Well, ’ee mus’ tak’ it ! ” she said with decision. 

“ Ah, but it’s so hard ! ” he answered. “ For in- 
stance, it would be so hard to say good-bye to you 
now, under this cloudless sky and bright sunshine, 
and know I should never see you again, Cathie.” 

“ So ’twould ! an’ wouldn’ ’ave no manner o’ 
meanin’ nether ! ” 

“ It would have more meaning than you perhaps 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


153 


are aware of. Man is so constituted that he cannot 
indulge in a really supreme friendship with any 
woman saving the one. he intends to make his 
wife.” 

“No?” she said, and she looked him straight in 
the eyes. 

“ I’ve been rather foolish altogether,” he continued. 
“ I think our friendship has been a distinct mistake. 
For instance, now I have succeeded in teaching you 
a good deal — for you’ve been an apt pupil — but are 
you any the happier for it ^ ” 

“ That be I ! ” she answered heartily. 

“ Ah, well,” he said, rising, “ I don’t know that it 
has been very wise.” 

She rose too. 

“ These are the books,” he said ; “ and if I do not 
come to claim them, they are yours.” 

She took them without speaking. 

“Good-bye,” he said. “I do not think I shall 
come again, Cathie.” 

“ Good-bye,” she answered, and passed on. 

“ Stop ! let me carry them along the hillside for 
you.” 

He took the bundle of books, and they walked 
to the farm gate without speaking. Then she 
motioned him to put the books down, and leaning 
her back against the rough stone wall, she said — 

“ So ’ee b’ain’t cornin’ back no more ? ” 

He hesitated. 

“ Well,” he said slowly, “ I think not” 


154 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ I s’pose ’ee think ’tis bes’ ? ” 

“Yes,” he said, “ I think it best” 

She looked at him with a half-mocking smile ; 
then, nodding her head to him, she passed through 
the farm gate. 

“ Stop ! ” he cried for the second time ; " I have an 
idea. Miss Clavers will be in this neighbourhood 
to-morrow. You know. Miss Clavers is the young 
lady I admire so much — the one I hope some day to 
make my wife. Shall I bring her up to see you ? ” 

A dangerous light flashed in the girl’s eye, 
and she wheeled round upon him. But her mood 
suddenly changed. 

“ Ay, do ’ee,” she said, in her very softest accents. 

Temple was charmed. What a harmless aspect it 
gave the whole affair ! The thought of introducing 
his hoped-for bride to this wild young creature 
made the ground beneath his feet seem firm and 
solid rock. 

“ I will ! ” he cried. “ Would you really like to 
see her ? ” 

“ I reckon I could do wi’out,” she answered. 
“ Howsomever, I reckon as ’ow ’er can’t. Theer’s a 
sight o’ volk as come for clap eyes on me sinth the 
artist man a-painted my pictur.” 

“ What artist man ? ” cried Temple. 

“ I dunno what ’e was a-called.” 

“ How dared you let him ! ” cried Temple, forget- 
ting himself He felt furious. “You’re not to do 
these things, do you hear ? ” 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


155 


She dropped a demure curtsey. 

“That’s what I was a-larned to do when I was 
little maid,” she said, turning up her apron and 
fingering the corner with mock nervousness. “ To 
mak’ a curtsey to the gentry an’ zay, ‘ Ees, sir,’ an’ 
‘No, ma’am,’ — an’ go ’way arter, an’ do all as I was 
a mind to. Bless ’ee, they b’laved it all ! Thiccy 
curtsey pleases mun won’erful.” 

“You want to evade what I am saying,” said 
Temple, on whose face her mockery brought no 
smile. “Won’t you tell me who this artist was.^” 

His tone had changed. 

“I couldn’ tell ’ee what ’e was a -called,” said 
Cathie, “for I dunno. I know ’e was fine an’ tall 
an’ straight, an’ the pictur was for Lunnon. That’s 
all I know about un. ’E never spoke, bless your 
life ! — ’e was won’erful kind o’ closed up like. When 
pictur was a-finished ’e give me sovereign, an’ that’s 
the last I ever seed o’ un.” 

“ Is this the whole truth, Cathie ? ” 

She was on the point of being indignant and 
angry, but when she met his eyes her own dropped. 

“ I never told ’ee no lie since I knowed ’ee first,” 
she said. 

There was a touch of emotion in the rich full 
tones of her voice, and on her half-averted face, with 
the downcast eyes. 

“Cathie, I have told you before, and I tell you 
again,” he said, with a strange drawn look on his 
face, “ you are dear to me — I hold you as a friend 


156 


’POSTLE FARM. 


— I could not bear ” he stopped ; his voice 

trembled ; he was amazed, confused, uncertain. 

“Cathie,” he said, “whatever the future brings, 
always remember my intentions towards you were 
sincere ” 

The girl drew in her breath. One or two emotions 
crossed her beautiful face. Then, just as Grandfer’s 
shuffling step came over the yard, she cried beneath 
her breath — 

“Ah, but I trust ’ee!” and stretched out her 
hands to him. 

He took them impulsively between his own, and, 
before he knew it, he had raised them to his lips. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“Who was’t ’ee was a-tellin’ wi’, ma-deear.?” asked 
Grandfer, as Cathie came over the yard with a 
wonderfully soft light on her face. 

“I dunno what 'e be a-called,” she answered. 

“Reel genelman — I zeed thiccy,” said Grandfer, 
picking up the pigs’ bucket and pouring the wash 
into the troughs. “’Ee might o’ offered un a glass 
o’ milk. Us a’n’t much, but what us ’ve a-got volks 
is welcome to.” 

“ I give un some’at more sperrety nor that,” said 
Cathie to herself as she entered the kitchen ; and 
she laughed softly. 

That hand-clasp made an impression on Temple. 
Cathie’s was a wonderfully strong and firm clasp ; 
and yet it could be clinging too. Had there only 
been strength in it, it would not have suited Temple 
so well, for he had by no means too much strength 
himself, and a man does not care to own a woman is 
possessed with a superabundance of a manly virtue 
he feels himself a little lacking in. Cathie’s clasp 


158 


’POSTLE FARM. 


had been clinging too, and this restored his self- 
esteem, for it showed there was something in him 
to lean on, after all. 

It must not be imagined for a moment that 
Temple put this into clear thought as he strode 
down the hill. In the first warmth of our emotions 
we do not care to analyse them. That comes later 
on, when the first tender effulgence has faded. To 
do it at first would be like taking a hammer to 
break the stone of a peach just as we are enjoying 
its bloom and its fragrance. When we have eaten 
the peach, then we come quite naturally to the 
kernel. Temple postponed eating the peach, but 
he continued to enjoy the bloom and the fragrance. 

He had often spoken to Elsie about Cathie ; and 
he spoke again now, when he met Elsie after an 
absence of several months, and with the memory 
of Cathie’s hands in his still very warm within him. 

“Tell me more about her,” said Elsie, when he 
paused. 

They were sitting in the drawing-room of the 
hotel at which the Clavers were staying. The 
scent of violets came softly through the open 
window. The day was relaxing ; to Temple it 
was even oppressive. 

“Well,” he said, “ I don’t know that there is much 
more to tell. Only, I always feel I want to tell you 
all about her. It is so horribly sad. What is one 
to do? What can one do?” 

“Could she not be educated?” 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


159 


Temple shrugged his shoulders. 

“ After all, what does that do for her > It only 
places her above her station. That is the worst of 
her — she is so miserably above her station. The 
outlook for her is utterly hopeless.” 

Elsie thought for a moment. 

“ I really think,” she said, " it is one of those cases 
which is better left alone.” 

“ I daresay you are right,” said Temple. 

“ Don’t you think so yourself ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me ! ” he said, rising and beginning to 
pace the room. “ I can’t say ! I don’t know ! It’s 
horrible ; and if inevitable, still more horrible. How- 
ever,” he continued, flinging himself on to the sofa 
beside her, “why should I trouble you with it? 
Do you know, it is four months since I saw you 
last.” 

“Is it so long?” said Elsie, though she knew 
quite well it was four months and three days. 

“As to education,” he continued, “she can read 
and write, of course, and she thoroughly enjoys 
Shakespeare.” 

A very distinct change came over Elsie’s face. 
Temple was tracing the pattern of the carpet with 
the point of his toe, and did not observe it. 

“You see a great deal of her?” 

“ Oh yes — whenever I can. I’ve taught her lots 
of things. No man ever had an apter pupil. Why, 
she actually ” 

He stopped short. After all, what girl would 


i6o 


'POSTLE FARM. 


like the man who was paying attention to licr to 
have the name of another girl constantly on his 
lips ? What was coming over him ? What would 
the end of it all be ? 

In vain that night Elsie assured herself it was 
no more than a kindly interest Temple took 
in poor crazy Cathie. She had to admit at last, 
with tears of shame, that she did not like it, and 
the last words poor Elsie uttered that night were — 

“I hate her! I hate her! and I hate his being 
with her ! Oh, I wish, if he loves me, he would tell 
me so 1 Why does he keep delaying ? Surely, 
surely he must know I love him too?” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


It was impossible for Temple not to notice a con- 
straint in Elsie’s manner the following morning, 
when he rode over to see her. He therefore at 
once made the suggestion he had already made 
to Cathie. Elsie’s face lightened. 

“ I really should like your opinion of the girl,” 
said Temple. “ She is a curious temper, but I think 
I might venture to take you in under pretext of 
seeing the cows milked — or something in that way. 
You need not, of course, seem to observe her : be 
interested in the farming occupations.” 

Madge Montague is going to take up farming.” 

“ Whatever will she take up next ? ” 

“She has left that sweet little cottage — fancy! — 
or at least she is going to leave it : but I interrupted 
you — what were you saying? Oh yes, about this 
girl. I should very much like to see her. Will you 
take me ? You say she is beautiful ? ” 

“Did I say she was beautiful? Yes, I suppose 
she would be generally considered so.” 

“Don’t you consider her so?” 

L 


i 62 


*POSTLE FARM. 


“ Well, IVe got so used to her face — I mean to say 
— not used to it, of course : but, honestly, I forget 
what my first impressions were.” 

“ Well, if you will take me to see her, I will tell 
you what my first impressions are, shall I ? ” 

“ I wish you would.” 

So in the afternoon, the tide suiting. Temple 
rowed Elsie up from Upcott, and they walked to- 
gether up the grassy hill that led to Tostle Farm. 

They proceeded to the door of the dwelling-room 
together. Temple rapped on it with his stick. 

“ Good afternoon,” he said, in a fine offhand tone. 
“ I have brought this lady to see the cowshed and 
the dairy, and so on, if you would be so good as to 
show them to us.” 

There was absolute silence. Back in the dark 
half of the kitchen, out of Elsie’s view, though well 
within Temple’s anxious range, Cathie stood defiant 
and stubborn. Very slowly she came forward, 
curiosity having got the better of her. She longed 
to see the woman of Temple’s choice ; angry emo- 
tions feared to find her more beautiful than herself. 

She came forward scowling, and stood, at last, 
framed in the dark doorway, and for a background 
the whitewashed wall. 

She stood a moment haughtily regarding the 
intruders. 

“This is Miss Clavers,” said Temple, beginning 
to feel uncomfortable. 

“’Er ’ee’m gwin for marry inquired Cathie. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 163 

“We can’t always have things exactly as we 
wish,” said Temple, not daring to look at Elsie, 
and wishing with all his soul he had not hazarded 
this visit. 

To his intense relief he saw the expression of 
Cathie’s face change slowly. It was not a change 
complimentary to his bride - elect ; and he pres- 
ently divined this. Cathie’s expressive face, as 
she turned to him, said as plainly as words 
could — 

“ Think a sight of her, do you ? Dress me in 
those clothes of hers, and — but there, she isn’t 
worth thinking about!” Aloud she said demurely, 
“ Please to come this way ! ” 

She led the way to the shippon. It was ready 
for the cows : fresh straw scattered lightly for 
bedding ; hay in the manger for food. On each 
pine post hung the iron chains to be fastened 
severally as necklaces round each fair lady’s neck. 
They were bright as steel with the friction against 
the soft hairy skins of the animals, as they tossed up 
their horned heads to draw down the fragrant hay. 
Just where the rings ran on the pine posts the red- 
brown bark was rubbed off, and the plain deal shone 
out as if a french-polisher had been at work. 

“How bright you keep the chains!” said Elsie, 
wishing to be appreciative, but strongly repulsed 
by the girl’s powerful personality. 

“ Yes, miss, I does,” said Cathie wickedly. 
“Tak’s a sight o’ time.” 


164 


'POSTLE FARM. 


Temple wheeled round on her. He could have 
shaken her for making fun of his intended bride. 
But Cathie did not appear aware of his angry 
gaze. She only blinked mildly and meekly at 
Elsie, who stood holding up her dainty skirts and 
trying to evince an interest in farming occupa- 
tions. 

“Fm zure,” continued Cathie, using the com- 
plaining tone of voice she always recollected as 
a child hearing from Mrs Mollard — “ Fm zure 
’gainst I be up mornin’s an’ veeded the pigs, an’ 
milked the cows, an’ let the calvies zuck, an’ 
tended the poultry, an’ cooked the breaksus, an’ 
washed o’ Mondays, an’ baked o’ Fridays, an’ 
carr’ed the men their nammock, an’ mad’ the 
butter, an’ scoured the crocks, an’ cleaned up ’ouse 
a bit, an’ done my bit needlework, an’ one thing 
an’ ’nother, I be mos’ dead ’gainst night-time comes 
along. ’Tis cruel ’ard work for a poor maid, all 
lonesome like — an’ nothin’, as may say, cornin’ in 
for’t ne’ther!” 

At the commencement of this whining oration 
Temple stared at Cathie in amazement. Doubt 
and perplexity succeeded — the recollection that 
she was called crazy — the dim wonder whether 
she really was. Then his impulse was to stop 
her peremptorily, but he felt he should get the 
worst of this. He became downright furious as 
he recognised she was making game of them both ; 
but the next moment he was seized with an 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 1 6 $ 

irresistible desire to laugh. He moved away ; he 
could not keep his features straight. 

He heard Elsie saying good-afternoon, so he 
turned back to join them. He saw her slip a 
coin into Cathie’s hand. He expected to see it 
come whizzing back in her face ; instead he saw 
Cathie stooping to look on the ground. 

“ I thought mebbe,” she said, “ theer might be 
another sexpence as ’ad rolled in the muck!” 

Elsie positively blushed with shame over Cathie’s 
terrible rapacity. 

“ Oh 1 ” she cried to Temple as soon as they were 
out of earshot, “ she’s something too dreadful ! 
She’s nothing but a complete humbug ! I am 
sure of it. It’s only money she wants, not learning.” 

“But she isn’t like that, really,” said Temple, 
beginning to burst with laughter ; and then, mad 
with himself, he turned and shook his fist in the 
direction of the farmyard. “She’s only — well 

He stopped ; he could not possibly explain. If 
he explained, the entente would seem unpleasantly 
familiar. 

“You are too good to her,” said Elsie. “You 
are entirely deceived in her, I feel quite sure. 
Now to me, really, she is as clear as glass. I 
can read right through her.” 

Temple felt a sudden irritation towards Elsie 
which frightened him. 

“ Oh, she’s uncanny,” he said. “ Don’t let’s speak 
of her any more.” 


’POSTLE FARM. 


1 66 

Elsie laughed softly ; but she said no more. 
Uncanny was the very last epithet she would have 
applied to Cathie. 

When they had got into the boat, and the last 
of Tostle Farm and Upcott Hall had disappeared 
round the bend of the river, she said — 

*‘I have so much enjoyed this little trip. I 
know you feel disappointed about the girl — forgive 
me my candour ; but, do you know, I feel sure — 
I do indeed — that she is quite an impostor. Some- 
how I saw it all quite clearly. I felt it from the 
first moment she spoke.” 

Temple’s lips twitched ; then he frowned. He 
would have given worlds to get away from Elsie 
just then. He was dissatisfied with the whole 
business. Elsie had shown to disadvantage ; Cathie 
had been maddening ; he himself was in a false 
position, while Elsie was placed in an unfair one. 
He would never go back to Cathie after this — he 
was too angry with her. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Yet the next morning, when he left the Clavers, 
instead of taking his ticket to the north, as he 
had intended, he took a ticket back to Upcott. 
He was so angry with Cathie that he felt he 
could not rest till he had it out with her. 

He climbed the hill late that evening as the 
sun was setting. Already the base of the hill and 
the river were in shadow. He paused at the 
farmyard gate, and looked down. The tide was 
out ; a group of seagulls rested on the purple 
sand of the bend below the Hall. The little 
town of Upcott was silhouetted against the sky, 
veiled in a lavender haze, out of which the square 
church tower and the irregular roofs of the houses 
climbing up the hill stood dark and distinct. 
The beauty and the peace of it all entered into 
his soul. 

“ Shoosha-kee ! shoosha-kee ! ” 

The music of the farmyard pump made Temple 
turn his head rapidly. As he expected, Cathie 
was there. The sleeves of her cotton blouse were 


'POSTLE FARM. 


1 68 

rolled up above her elbows. She was standing 
with her back towards him. 

He came nearer. The sparkling water streamed 
into the last bucket and overflowed. Cathie stooped 
to carry her burden across the yard. As she walked, 
her carriage was erect, but her head was bent to keep 
out the level rays of the sun from her eyes. The 
water in the buckets sluiced from side to side, falling 
in dimples and rising in miniature crests ; and at 
every step a little wave washed over, now from one 
bucket, now from the other, leaving an avenue of 
glistening stars in her wake. 

When within a yard of him, she put down the 
buckets with a clatter and looked at him. He 
knew then she had seen him from the first. 

With a little comic twitching of the lips, she 
said — 

“ I thought ’ee said ’ee wasn’t gwin for come no 
more ! ” 

“My only reason for coming now,” said Temple, 
severely, “is to tell you you had no business what- 
ever to behave as you did yesterday. It put me 
in a false position, and it was unfair to my — -to 
Miss Clavers.” 

“Oh, go ’long!” she answered angrily. “01’ 
muzzle-pate you be I ” 

She took up the buckets again and passed into 
the house. 

Now that he had made her angry, he wished he 
had not. After all, an Englishman’s house is his 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 1 69 

castle, and he had invaded hers. He leant against 
the door ; a sense of trouble was upon him. 

Suddenly he asked — 

“ What did you do with the sixpence ? ” 

Mischief flashed from her eye. Pausing in her 
task of laying the evening meal, she leaned her 
hands on the table, and bending towards him, 
whispered — 

‘‘He’s over ’gainst the shippon door, stuck in 
putty.” 

A delightful sense of mutual amusement stirred 
Temple, but he controlled it. It was hideous for 
them to laugh together over Elsie. 

The girl watched him closely. Now that he was 
not observing her, there was even a little timidity in 
her mien. A sense that she was fighting at that 
moment for all her life was worth, caused her breath 
to come unevenly. If only he would look up and 
join her laugh! 

He looked up, but his eyes were grave. 

“I wanted her to appreciate you,” he said. 
“Why did you make a fool of me.^” 

“ Not o’ you,” she said ; and for the first time in 
all their intercourse the heart she had sought to 
imprison so closely leapt into her voice, and shone 
for one moment in her eyes. 

He caught her hands in his. It was as if for one 
brief instant they rocked together over a yawning 
chasm. The next moment Cathie recovered her 
balance. Drawing her hands away, and still with 


I/O 


'POSTLE FARM. 


a suspicion of tenderness in her beautiful voice, she 
said — 

“ ’Ee wouldn’ deny me a bit o* frolic ? ” 

The words that he would deny her nothing in all 
the wide world leapt to Temple’s lips. With an 
effort he controlled them. 

“Cathie, there is a bond between us,” he said, 
while a whiteness settled on his face, — “a bond 
that I can’t altogether define ; but it is a bond, and a 
strong one, and I like you to seem perfect to others 
as you seem to me ; and, in short, when I bring 
visitors to see you, you shouldn’t make fun of 
them.” 

She moved away. 

“ Shall I tell ’ee ’ow to stop it ? ” she asked, 
pausing with a large pan of scalded milk at the 
farther door. 

“How?” he asked. 

“ Don’t bring no more,” she answered, passing out 
of sight. 

She left a laugh behind her that echoed softly 
along the oak beams of the kitchen ceiling. 
Temple remained waiting for her return, but she 
did not come back. 

“ Cathie ! ” he called at last, “ I am going.” 

There was no answer. 

“I have to catch a train,” he called. 

Silence still. 

He rapped twice at the farther door, and peeped 
in at the dairy. So cool and quiet it looked, with 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. I/I 

its open window and half- closed shutter, and the 
green bank with pink ragged-robins just beyond. 

Cathie ! ” he called again ; but his voice echoed 
into silence. 

He had the sense that she was somewhere at 
hand ; but not a sound came to him. 

“ Good-bye, dear,” he said at last ; and he kissed 
his hand to the milk-pans and passed out. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Thunder-clouds had been threatening all day, 
making the task of saving the hay an anxious 
one. Though the sun appeared only at compara- 
tively rare intervals, the breeze was fresh and 
strong, and the hay made with a rapidity that 
surprised even Grandfer, in spite of his experience 
running back over threescore years. 

“ I never zeed ’ay mak’ quicker,” he cried, as they 
sat for a brief spell under the hedge to take their 
mid-day meal. “ Geeve’s jus’ a hummock o’ bread 
an’ a jug o’ zyder, ma-deear,” he added, turning to 
Cathie. “ I mind one zummer us cut an’ scatified 
an’ carr’ed the vour-acre vield in dree days — that 
was the quickest I can mind. But that year 
was differ’nt ; e’d a -been a dry year. Now this 
year the grass be amazin’ zappy, an’ ’twas zo 
wet as dung when us scatified ’ere yester mornin’ ; 
warn’t it now. Bill ? An’ ’ere to-day ’tis vit vor 
car’y. Eef the thunder - clouds ’ll but kape off, 
us’ll be zo right as rain, an’ get mun stacked vor 
nightvall. ’Tis a voxy day, tho’ ; but I pray the 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


173 


Loord to kape it off a bit : all these ’ere labour 
drowed away mak’s a cruel day o’t. When I 
was young, a bit o’ labour more’n less mad’ no 
manner o’ differ’nce like ; an’ now, ’pon my zoul, 
’tis every pitchvoorkfull begrudged like!” 

“ Why don’t ’ee eat,” grumbled Miah. “ ’Ee a’n’t 
got no tathe, an’ it takks ’ee longer nor mos’ volk, 
an’ these ’ere jibber-jaw leaves ’ee ’underds behind 
’and.” 

Grandfer swallowed something besides his cider 
before he murmured — 

“ Ees, ees ; ees, ees ! ” and he did not speak 
again. 

When evening fell the sun made a sudden 
warmth upon the landscape. It tinted the thunder- 
clouds into roses, and shone through a golden haze 
upon the river. It wrapped the shorn fields and 
the irregular haycocks, the carts, the labouring 
men, and, above all, the girl, in a beautiful soft 
golden radiance — half veiled, like a dream almost 
forgotten when the sleeper wakes, but exquisite 
still. The sound of the men’s voices came clearly 
in the great stillness, for the wind had suddenly 
died away. The clinking of the harness, the 
rumbling of the carts, the straining effort of the 
horses as they mounted the hill, each and every 
sound, came clearly to Temple as he rowed on 
the river, trying to govern thoughts that would 
not be governed — to rule actions that would not 
be ruled. 


174 


POSTLE FARM. 


Then he gave it up, and, flinging the anchor on 
to the bank, leapt from the boat and mounted 
the hill. 

He was down at the Hall after an absence of 
some weeks. He had decided, during that in- 
terval, that whatever the bond between himself 
and Cathie might be defined as, it must be broken. 
He ascended the hill now for the purpose of tell- 
ing her so, avoiding the hayfield by taking a cir- 
cuitous route. There was, of course, no harm in 
his visits, but their purpose might be misconstrued. 

He sauntered towards the place they had named 
the Bower, leaving a v/hite signal hanging from 
the farthest elm tree. The sign of Judas this time 
was not a kiss, but a woman’s kerchief. 

The Bower had once been a small quarry ; but 
it was disused now, and overgrown with thick 
foliage. Hundreds of such quarries are to be seen 
in Devon, where the strata of rock are rarely deep 
enough to permit the use of the same quarry for 
any lengthened period. In the bottom of this one 
was a little cleared space, half overgrown with 
moss. Here any one could sit free from observa- 
tion, even were the wood above frequented — and 
rarely indeed did the foot of man pass that way. 
At most a sheep might bleat, caught in a bramble 
above, or a startled bird fly from her nest. 

Temple made his way there, and waited. He 
had caught a glimpse of Cathie transfigured in the 
light of the setting sun, and every nerve he had re- 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


175 


sponded to the sight. He was going to tell her he 
could come no more. How would she take it } 

He waited for the best part of an hour ; and so 
great had his excitement become that, in spite 
of his utmost effort, he could no longer sit still, 
but must pace the narrow spot feverishly to and 
fro. 

Then at last came the sound of her swift foot- 
fall ; the branches were thrust aside, and she stood 
before him, with the tenderness that lay always 
in her heart shining through her eyes. 

And before he could stay himself his arms were 
round her, and he was kissing her with all the 
passion of his heart hers. 

At first it was all rapture. All that stood be- 
tween them was forgotten. 

But suddenly it came back to him. He turned 
from her with a groan, and covered his face with 
his hands. The step he had been so sure he would 
not take, he had taken. 

Marriage was impossible. He must turn and 
tell her so. 

But when he turned, she was gone. He could 
not believe it. He called her ; there was no 
answer. A terrible sense that she was gone from 
him irrevocably, settled on him like a heavy 
cloud. 

“My darling, come back to me!” he cried, but 
there was no answer. The only sound that came 
to him, as he paused to listen, was the cooing of 


176 


*POSTLE FARM. 


the wood-pigeons in the great fir tree that threw 
its dark boughs over the thick growth of the 
quarry. 

Man though he was, he flung himself on the 
ground and sobbed in his agony. He loved where 
love was impossible, — loved her madly. Separa- 
tion was the only solution. Separation was bitter 
as death. Sin stared him in the face — and con- 
quered. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“ITS this way,” said Cathie. “If you was to ask 
me for marry of ’ee, I wouldn’t — zee ^ I rinned 
away ’cause I wouldn’t.” 

They were sitting in Cathie’s best parlour. It 
was the first time Temple had ever entered it, 
and the pathos of her effort was like a voice cry- 
ing within him. She had put on her best gown 
to meet him, but she was not awkward in it as 
most farm-girls would have been. She had entered 
the room with her own gracious dignity. She was 
not conscious of her clothes. 

“But, Cathie,” he said slowly, “if you wouldn’t 
marry me — well, for the sake of argument, say 
you won’t — still, dear, I should always love you ; 
you would always be first with me. The only 
difference would be, the world would not know it.” 

She looked at him with a sudden cynicism on 
her face. 

“Ah, but it’s powerful needful that the world 
should know oft!” she answered. 

“ How do you know these things ? ” he exclaimed. 

M 


1/8 


^POSTLE FARM. 


She smiled that curious smile she had once 
smiled on Bessie in that same room. 

“You don’t gainzay it, then?” 

“I do gainsay it!” he cried vehemently, rising 
as he spoke and throwing himself on his knees 
beside her chair. “I do gainsay it! By all the 
man in me I gainsay it ! I love you ! I shall 
love you while life lasts. The world is neither 
here nor there ! ” 

“ Still, ’tain’t ezac’ly wife ’ee mak’ me,” she said ; 
and in spite of herself scorn flashed from eye and 
lip. 

“You don’t understand,” he said, rising abruptly. 
“ How should you ? You don’t understand my 
world.” 

“Nor don’t want for,” she answered. “I un’er- 
stan’ I be a maid as free an’ glad as heaven to- 
day. If I listen to ’ee, I’ll mak’ myself so’s I can 
drown myself down there in the river, glad enough 
for the mud an’ the san’ to wash over an’ lay 
me out o’ life.” Her voice trembled with passion. 
“ That’s what ’ee’d mak’ of me, is it ? That’s 
what ’ee call love in that damned world ’ee’m 
proud to speak on ! Go ; an’ God’s angels weigh 
your love! What is’t, then, but rags an’ filth an’ 
vileness? Ah, God have mercy on me! ’tis a 
cruel sword- thrust ! ” 

She had risen in her anger, but now she dropped 
into a chair, and the passion died out of her face. 
She looked at him with large mournful eyes. 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 179 

" I that loved ’ee ! ” she faltered — “ I that thought 
honour on *ee!” 

Every atom of blood had left his cheek. He 
came towards her. 

“ Cathie ! ” he cried, holding out his hands to her 
in pleading. 

Her beautiful face trembled, her bosom heaved. 

“ Forgive me ! ” he faltered, dropping on his knees 
beside her. “ Only forgive me ! Be my wife.’* 

“Is that God’s truth?” she asked, trembling 
greatly. 

“It is God’s truth,” he answered solemnly. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


There was no sleep for Temple that night. He 
attempted none. Through the long hours he paced 
the room in quick excited thought, and when the 
day dawned he was still far from any decision. 

He went to the window and looked across the 
river. The mist hung on the hills and half obscured 
the water. The trees stood out indistinct like dim 
giant shadows. The farm itself was invisible. 

And as he looked, he felt there was no spot in all 
the earth like it, and Catherine the only woman in 
the world he desired to make his wife. He longed 
to go across and tell her so. The first fresh breath 
of dawn stirred the window curtains, and blew upon 
his face, and weighted his eyelids. Sleep had come 
to him suddenly, and he turned and threw himself 
on the couch, and a profound slumber fell upon him. 

When he awoke, the sun was streaming across 
the room, and on all the broad wooded lands, 
on the river, on the line of hills across it, on the 
old grey farm. For one instant’s flash he believed 
he had married Cathie, and with a sudden sick- 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. l8l 

ness of despair he realised his folly. Then every- 
thing came back to him clearly. Three short hours’ 
sleep had changed him from a passionate lover to 
a cold and calculating man of the world. He could 
not marry Cathie. 

Of course he could not ! He saw it all as clear 
as daylight now. Already he had advanced further 
with Elsie than a man of honour could retreat. 
He must explain to Cathie. After all, she was 
only a poor ignorant farm -girl ; and though she 
could not be expected to understand, still no par- 
ticular harm was done. 

Of course he loved her. But he was not going 
to be quite such a fool as to wreck his whole pros- 
pects on that account. He could picture Lord 
Frobisher’s expression if he brought in Cathie and 
introduced her to him as his bride-elect ! Farewell, 
then, to the Upcott Hall estates! 

And yet, how in the world was he going to tell 
Cathie ? He shrank at the prospect — at the thought 
of her anger. It would make an end not only to 
love but to their friendship. When he came to con- 
sider that, he felt he could not lose her friendship. 
No, no! he valued it. He could not part with it. 
Catherine fitted into a nook that no other woman 
had ever occupied before, and never could again. 
He loved her ! That was the appalling part of it all. 
He loved her madly! Yet how could he introduce 
her to the world as his wife ? Could he have her edu- 
cated ? He had not the money. No ; better leave 


i 82 


’POSTLE FARM. 


things as they were for the present. He would 
go on educating her himself. Any day old Fro- 
bisher might die ; and then he would place her 
somewhere, where she could be fitted for the station 
which she was to occupy. In the meanwhile, how- 
ever, nothing could be done. He could not part 
with her; he could not marry her. They would 
enjoy each other for the time being anyway, and 
not trouble just yet about the future. 

He rowed himself across the river at an hour 
when he believed the men on the place would be 
out at work. 

He had calculated rightly. No one was in the 
yard as he passed through. The gate clanging 
to behind him brought Cathie from the kitchen. 

When she saw who it was, she half drew back 
with a shyness wholly new to him. The sense that 
the relationship between them was now for ever 
altered — that she belonged to him body and soul, 
and owned it in the sweet shy grace with which she 
greeted him — sent every nerve in his body tingling. 
She was his ; and as he took her in his arms in the 
first mad joy of possession, he felt that until that 
moment he had never lived. 

“ I’ve been waitin’ for ’ee,” she said, and the tears 
were in her eyes. “ Ah ! do ’ee s’pose I be the girl 
for let the man I love lose hisself for me ? ’Ee’ve 
got for say good-bye to me right ’ere — for I love 
’ee too well to cumber ’ee with a rough farm-maid 
for wife ! Ah ! do ’ee s’pose I would ? Do ’ee 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


183 


think it for a moment ? No, no ! ’ee’m free as God’s 
air! I’ll never keep ’ee to the word ’ee spoke 
in passion ! ” 

Her beautiful face so near his own, glowing with 
an emotion so worthy of her, stirred all the best 
that was in him. He recked nothing — all he wanted 
at that moment was her promise to be his wife. 
He desired her with his whole soul. Rather pov- 
erty with her, than all the riches of the world with- 
out her. 

“Cathie,” he cried, with strong emotion, “we 
belong to each other! With all that is best in 
me, I desire you ! Don’t be cruel, when we might 
be so happy ! ” 

He whispered the last words with his cheek 
against hers. 

She hesitated ; she trembled. “ I don’t want 
for bring nothing on ’ee but good.” 

“You couldn’t!” 

“Afterwards ’ee might be sorry.” 

“ I never should.” 

“’Ee might be ’shamed o’ me.” 

“ How could I be ? There never was a more 
beautiful girl than you are.” 

“But when I ope’ me mouth 

“ I’ll teach you how to speak.” 

“Oh no, no, no!” she cried, moving back from 
him ; “ it wouldn’t never do ! ” 

“ Well, let it pass for the present, then,” said 
Temple. “We’ll see how fast you learn.” 


I $4 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“Well,” she said, after a pause, “if I satisfy 
myself, I’ll answer for’t I’ll satisfy ’ee too — for I 
be that mortal partic’lar. But till I be satisfied 
o’ myself, I’ll never, never marry ’ee!” 

“But when I tell you that you satisfy me now, 
this moment.^ — that I don’t want you different, 
but just as you are?” 

“Oh, go ’long!” she answered. “Wheer’s the 
use o’ talkin’ foolishness ? ’Ow’d ’ee like for see 
me step out o’ church door wi’ ’ee, an’ step into 
some grand big place, an’ not know the names o’ 
’alf the things I seed theer, nor the uses o’ mun ! 
No, no ! theer b’ain’t no call for talk up foolishness. 
Us ’ave got a life to live, an’ folks to meet. Us 
can’t live a life up under a thimble.” 

“We could live in a little cottage and be happy 
as the day is long.” 

“ Thiccy b’ain’t my idea o’ ’appiness. If I can’t 
eddicate meself so as, pass where I might, folks 
’ould never put a finger o’ scorn on the place 
I sprung from. I’d never marry ’ee at all! Now, 
that’s plain ! ” 

“ Who is going to be master, Cathie, you or I ? ” 
said Temple, smiling, as he drew her towards him. 

“I tell ’ee what I’ve always yert tell,” she said. 
“ Courtin’ days is bes’ ! When a man’s in courtship, 
then ’tis ’elp ’ee over stile ; but when ’ee’m married, 
’tis stigged in mud an’ never turn to ’ee 1 Whether 
there be truth in’t or no, I couldn’ tell ’ee, but I’ll 
be master while I can, an’ so mak* sure o’ the fust 


WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 


185 


part. Ah ! but bless ’ee life,” she finished, looking 
up at him with a charming tenderness, “ that be all 
my frolic ! I tell ’ee I’d know nothin’ better nor 
to do what ’ee asked of me, no matter what ’twas 
— but — well, I be queer — sometimes I know more 
nor I did ought 'cording to ! There’s some things 
I be just amazin’ firm on, an’ ’ee couldn’ alter me 
in ’em no’ow. There’s some’at comes to me when 
I be kind o’ hesitatin’ ; an’ this way seems bes’, an’ 
that way easier — they call me crazy, an’ ’appen I 
be — but when that some’at comes an’ tells me 
’ardest road’s the road for me to tak’, do ’ee think 
’ee could shaken me out o’t ? ” She stood upright 
and looked at him almost defiantly. “ No ; you 
might break my bones an’ tear out the ’eart o’ me, 
but the very power o’ heaven’s on me, an’ I won’t 
budge. Ah ! ” she finished, “ Miah saith there b’ain’t 
no God ! but leastways there’s that as ’elps those as 
’as never known a mother — an’ ’appen could call no 
man by the name o’ vather.” 

She was trembling with strong emotion. 

As for Temple, he was awed. He felt in the 
presence of that which was better than himself. 
A wave of exaltation lifted him to a higher level. 
He kissed her with a passionate reverence, and he 
gave her his word as a man of honour, that never, 
no matter how strong his own feelings, would he 
seek to dissuade her from the path her highest 
instincts bade her follow. 










BOOK III. 


LINE UPON LINE. PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT 



/ 





> d 






CHAPTER XXXVII. 


It happened one evening Madge had gone out to 
dinner, leaving Miss Scottie in sole possession of 
the picturesque little cottage overlooking the river 
Teel ; for, as Madge had insisted on walking, the 
maid had gone to keep her company and give her 
protection, at Miss Scottie’s earnest request. 

Since they had started the wind had risen, and 
now blew in sudden gusts against the window-panes, 
bringing with it a deluging rain. Miss Scottie felt 
no anxiety. She was sure Madge would either be 
detained by her friends for the night or sent home 
in their carriage. So she sat before the fire, which 
the chill October night made welcome, and dozed 
peacefully in the intervals of her fancywork. 

But a sound above the beating rain and angry 
wind caused her suddenly to sit up straight and 
listen. 

It came again — a long, low tap at the door. 

Miss Scottie was one of those superstitious people 
who never hear an unexpected sound but it imme- 
diately assumes a grave importance. 


190 ’post I. E FARM. 

She waited and listened. Presently it came 
again. Then, summoning all her courage, she rose 
and opened wide the door, convinced she sliould 
find no one there. The October blast swept in rain 
and yellow leaves, and set the pictures swinging on 
the wall. 

A girl with a shawl over her head stood outside, 
gazing at her with dark wide-open eyes. 

Miss Scottie put out her hand and drew her in. 

“ Come in,” she said, raising her thin voice above 
the storm. “ It is a cruel night to be out in. Do 
you want shelter ? ” 

She closed the door with difficulty, and turned to 
speak to her visitor; but the lamplight fell on a 
face of such singular beauty that for a moment she 
was rendered speechless. The girl had flung the 
shawl from her head, and her damp, dark hair clung 
in tendrils about her ears and brow. She was more 
than common tall. The magnificent moulding of 
her figure was outlined by the light above her. 
Her wonderful eyes shot out expressive glances. 
She stood as queens might stand, and Miss Scottie, 
remembering her greeting, said — 

“ I beg your pardon. It was dark. I could not 
see. Take this chair near the fire. You must be 
very wet.” 

The girl obeyed. Tears of compassion welled 
into Miss Scottie’s eyes. Here was a high-born girl 
in the garb of a peasant. It could have but one 
interpretation. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. I91 

You want shelter,” she said tremulously. “You 
need not ask it. You have it.” 

She put out her hand — the hand that no man had 
ever clasped or kissed — and took the girl’s. Cathie 
smiled, that wonderful sudden smile of hers. Then 
she opened her mouth and spoke. 

“ I don’t want vor no shalter,” she said, the smooth 
broad Devonshire rolling off her tongue with the 
ease of custom. “ I only want vor larn an* be a 
scholard.** 

Miss Scottie positively started. Nothing in the 
world could have surprised her more thoroughly. 
She had expected to hear the delicate speech of a 
well-bred girl. 

“ Who are you ^ ” she cried. “ Where do you 
come from ? ’* 

“Over to ’Postle Farm. I want for larn. You 
be the schoolmissus, I s’pose } ” 

“No, my dear, I’m not. Do you want to see the 
schoolmistress ? Her cottage is on the other side of 
the schoolhouse. We are living in the old school- 
house cottage. Did you never go to school } Can’t 
you read or write ? ** 

The girl smiled contemptuously. 

“So can mos’ folk, I s’pose. You can do more 
than that yourself, I reckon.” 

Miss Scottie murmured a diffident assent. 

“ An’ why shouldn’ I ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly, no reason,” said Miss Scottie 
meekly. 


192 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Cathie sat quietly looking into the fire for a 
minute or two without speaking. 

Ees,” she said at last, “ I want for larn.” 

“Let me see,” said Miss Scottie slowly. “How 
could it be managed ? Are there no night-schools 
here, I wonder I could, perhaps, have made some 
arrangement, but we are leaving shortly. My 
dearest girl, whose companion I am, is going to 
take a farm.” 

“ What for, when ’er’s a-got this ? ” said Cathie, 
looking round the cosy little room. 

“Just for amusement. She’s going to milk and 
make the butter herself.” 

“ Lord sakes ! ” cried Cathie, bursting into a little 
peal of laughter. “ Well, if that b’ain’t a queer kind 
of amusement ! ” 

“Yes, it’s very queer, as you rightly say. Very 
queer. But then, my dearest girl is queer, but oh, 
so lovable ! I am sure she would be so pleased for 
me to help you to find a teacher. She is the soul 
of kindness ! ” 

“I don’t want no charity,” said Cathie proudly. 
“Grandfer’s got money laid by in a stockin’ up the 
chimney. What I want is for larn. Oh, if I could 
larn!” she cried, rising and clasping her hands. 
“If I could only larn for talk like gentlefolk, an’ 
behave meself as sichlike!” 

“ So I’m sure you will, my dear ! ” cried Miss 
Scottie. “ I am sure we can arrange something for 
you with kind Mrs Eliot, our schoolmistress, over 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. I93 

the way, I do not see, though you are grown-up, 
why you should not go to school, if you wish to. 
I will see Mrs Eliot and arrange it all for you, and 
then you must call in again.” 

“ I do so want for larn ! ” said Cathie. 

"‘The love of learning is a beautiful thing to be 
possessed of” 

Cathie looked a little guilty. 

“ I always was for lamin’ for larnin’s sake ; but 
there be a powerful reason of late as mak’s me want 
for larn more partic’lar than ever. See, t’ain’t only 
love of lamin’ brought me straight away to ’ee ; 
tho’, mind ’ee, I did love lamin’ when there waren’t 
nothin’ ahind o’t ! ” 

Miss Scottie nodded her head and smiled. She 
pictured to herself one of the superior artisan class 
asking this girl’s hand in marriage, and she warmly 
admired her desire to be equal with him in education. 

“ I will see Mrs Eliot for you, she said, “ and let 
you know.” 

Cathie rose. 

“ My dear, it’s a dreadful night ! ” 

“Mak’s no manner o’ differ’nce to me,” replied 
Cathie, putting the shawl over her head once more. 

“ My dear, I can’t let you go out till you have 
had a hot cup of cocoa or something to warm you.” 

“Us ’ave got plenty to ’Postle Farm. Us don’t 
want for nothin’. I’m feared I’ve a-massed ’ee floor. 
Please t’excuse, an’ many thanks for your offer o’ 
^elp — ’tis won’erful kind o’ ’ee, sure ’nough.” 

N 


194 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“ Well now, come, let me fetch you a hot drink ! ” 

“ No, thankee, ma’am. Your kindness is the same.” 

She opened the door, and the whirling leaves 
danced into the room and the driving rain beat 
upon her face. 

With a cheery “ good night to ’ee ! ” she shut the 
door. 

When Cathie reached home that night she knelt 
beside her humble bed and said, “ God, who knows 
the ’earts o’ maidens what wants for larn, Cathie 
thanks Thee, though ’er aren’t got no fine words! 
Amen 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


Miss Scottie ran over to call on the schoolmis- 
tress the following morning immediately after break- 
fast. She was one of those diffident people cursed 
with an ungovernable impulsiveness that always 
leads them to make requests at the wrong time. 
The regular schoolmistress at Upcott had been 
ordered to the south of France for a thorough rest, 
and her place was being taken by a woman of gentle 
birth. Mrs Eliot was a niece of Lady Gamble’s. The 
widow of a colonel, she had only been left fairly well 
provided for, but the greater part of her income she 
set aside for the education of her only child. As 
she had not much money to give to charity, she gave 
her services instead — a much severer test. The 
schoolmistress drew her salary and took her holiday 
at the same time, and Mrs Eliot supplied her place. 
Perhaps it was a good thing Colonel Eliot was 
deceased ; for though he and his wife had been a 
devoted couple, he had somewhat restricted her 
sphere of usefulness. This post of village school- 
mistress she certainly could not have filled had he 


196 


'POSTLE FARM. 


been living. She would, of course, have been 
occupied in ministering to his creature comforts, and 
fostering, after the manner of a tactful woman, the 
unbounded, if somewhat exacting, love and ad- 
miration he lavished upon her; while the poor 
consumptive schoolmistress would have struggled 
wearily forward to the inevitable end. 

Being interrupted at the busiest time of the day 
is not calculated to make a person feel philanthrop- 
ically disposed. You want leisure to realise the 
claims of other people. 

As Miss Scottie tumbled out her history of Cathie 
with nervous diffidence and suppressed excitement, 
Mrs Eliot felt a growing annoyance. Surely, when 
she had voluntarily undertaken the whole school, 
Miss Scottie could have found time to do some- 
thing for this girl without burdening her with the 
responsibility ? 

“ My time is really so fully taken up,” she said, “ I 
do not think I could undertake anything further. 
Besides, very probably it is nothing but a freak of 
this girl’s, and in a week or two she will be tired of 
it. There is no reason why a girl should not have 
an education nowadays in the natural way. I 
think it absurd for them to come back when they 
are grown up, expressing sorrow for missed oppor- 
tunities. Opportunities don’t come more than once 
as a rule, and people ought to know it.” 

Then, as she saw the gradual lengthening of Miss 
Scottie’s eager face, she finished pleasantly — 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 1 97 

“I am very sorry, Miss Scottie, but you see I 
could not put a great grown-up girl — you say she is 
quite grown up ? — with a class of children ; it would 
upset the whole class : besides, she would want 
individual attention. I really couldn’t manage. 
You have no idea how hard I have to work to 
keep up with the Sixth Standard arithmetic ! ” she 
finished with a smile. “You will forgive my hurry- 
ing now.^ I have a class waiting.” 

“ Why can’t she teach the girl herself instead of 
troubling me with it?” was her thought as she 
returned to the schoolroom. 

And yet she was a particularly kind and amiable 
woman, but it is a fact that other people’s charities 
do not appeal to us. We want to be brought face 
to face with a situation and have our own particular 
sympathies stirred, before we can rouse ourselves 
to action. People can get as selfish and narrow- 
minded over their own pet charities quite as easily 
as they can over anything that never even had the 
ghost of a noble feeling to start it. 

“ She won’t do it ! ” said poor Miss Scottie, sitting 
down the picture of abject despair. 

“ Won’t do it ? ” cried Madge, looking up from a 
little watercolour sketch she was busy over. “ How 
beastly of her! There, Cocksey, is that the right 
green? Too yellow now, isn’t it?” 

“Too yellow, as you say,” murmured Cocksey 
absently. “ So pretty too ! ” 

“What! the yellow shade?” 


198 


*POSTLE FARM. 


“No, the poor farm-girl.” 

“ Oh, bother that farm-girl ! You haven’t spoken 
two intelligent sentences since you saw her. It’s 
horrid of Mrs Eliot, I think. Some people are so 
selfish ! ” 

“Of course you know, Madge, my dear, I might 
find time perhaps to teach the poor thing ; and if,” 
began Miss Scottie, diffidently — “ if, that is, you did 
not mind, and ” 

“ Mind ! I should rather think I did ! Why 
you’d always be with her when I wanted you with 
me ! Besides, surely to goodness you’ve had teach- 
ing enough ! It’s your time to rest now.” 

“ It’s never time to rest when there’s something to 
be done, as my poor father used to say.” 

“ H’m ; I thought it wasn’t original.” 

“ Life’s a very serious thing and responsibility.” 

“ Oh dear ! I wish you wouldn’t get religious,” said 
Madge, throwing down her paint-brush. “ It’s some- 
thing awful when you do. You’ll be going to these 
revival meetings over the way before you’re done!” 

“My dear!” said Miss Scottie, drawing herself 
up, “ I’m nothing if I’m not a churchwoman.” 

“ Then you ought to see the church school is the 
place for farm-girls to learn.” 

“Yes, I do see that; but you see, dear Mrs 
Eliot ” 

“ Oh, ‘dear Mrs Eliot* is like all the rest of them, 
— do anything for her own pleasure and nothing for 
anybody else’s ! ” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 199 

“ Mrs Eliot is a dear, kind woman,” said Cocksey. 
“ I suppose, my dear, you wouldn’t consent to the 
girl coming here every night and letting me do what 
I can for her } ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

In spite of herself Miss Scottie felt relieved. 

“What does the girl want with learning as long 
as she can read and write, and milk the cows and 
feed the pigs? Really, I have no patience with 
those stuck-up idiots who want to play the piano 
and be ladies ! Look here, Cocksey, nothing would 
make me consent to your victimising yourself!” 

Miss Scottie, as she went slowly upstairs to take 
off her hat, wiped away two furtive tears. 

“Youth is very hard 1” she murmured. 

And yet in her heart of hearts she was glad to 
be quit of the trouble. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


Glad until Cathie called for her answer. She 
went trembling to Madge. 

“ My dear, what shall I say ? She’s come.” 

Madge, who was not very dignified, got up on 
tiptoe and peeped through a chink in the door. 
Then she came back to Miss Scottie, and whis- 
pered — 

“ Isn’t she handsome ! ” 

Again she stole forward for another peep, re- 
turning to say — 

“Magnificent eyes!” 

Then back again, to return with — 

“Not like a farm-girl at all.” 

And Cocksey stood with finger on lip and the 
moisture gathering in her pale eyes, because the 
sympathy of her “ dearest girl ” was being enlisted 
without any interference from her. 

Madge came back at last for the final time, 
and whispered — 

“Go in and talk to her. I’ll listen.” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 201 

Miss Scottie went in without having taken the 
precaution to ask what she should say. 

Cathie did not answer Miss Scottie’s “ Good 
evening.” She sprang to the subject at once. 

“Be I gwin vor larn?” 

At the eager questioning of the beautiful eyes 
Miss Scottie’s fell. She hesitated. 

“I’ll ask my dearest girl,” she faltered. 

And through the half-open door Madge’s head 
was thrust nodding vehemently — 

“Yes, yes, yes!” 


CHAPTER XL. 


Temple’s visit to Upcott Hall was only a short 
one. The day soon came when he had to climb 
the hill and say good-bye to the beautiful girl 
who had given her heart to him. 

Temple’s feelings as he strode away from her 
would be difficult to analyse. As for hers, it felt 
to her as if half her life had gone with him. 

There was nothing, however, in the expression 
of her face to attract the attention of the men 
amongst whom she moved. She prepared their 
dinner, and as soon as she had emptied the 
steaming potatoes into a large dish in the centre 
of the table she withdrew. 

At the door she met Miah. 

“Come back an’ stay a bit wi’ us, Cathie, my 
gal,” he said in a wheedling tone. 

“ Mebbe I would if there was anythin’ for 
tempt me. But men folk I can’t a-bear. Driv’th 
me mazed for sit an’ ’ear mun mounchin’. 

She passed out and across the fields. 

Once on the hills, she lingered till late in the 
afternoon. When she returned she did her milk- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 203 

ing, put the kitchen straight, and set a cold supper 
for the men. Then her day’s work was ended. 

Although a light rain had begun, she could not 
remain within the house. A painful sense of uncer- 
tainty clouded her future ; a fearful sense of oppres- 
sion, over and above, and altogether separate from, 
her feeling of loss in Temple’s withdrawal. 

Over at Stibb Farm, Bessie, too, was experiencing 
all that her small soul could, in the way of fluttering 
emotions. 

After burning the dinner, and omitting to put any 
water with the potatoes she had been told to boil, 
she passed the afternoon in tears. Towards evening 
she took her hat from the peg, and moved towards 
the door with a furtive glance at her mother. 

“ Wheer be gwin, Bessie ? ” inquired Mrs Mollard. 

“ I can’t stir what ’ee’m askin’, ‘ Wheer be 
gwin ? ’ ” said Bessie pettishly. I be gwin out 
for a breath o’ fresh air.” 

“ Why, it be rainin’, chil’ ! ” said Mrs Mollard. 
“ An’ whose for milkey ^ Tom’s away wi’ the steers.” 

“ I’ll do’t when I come back,” said Bessie. 

“ I should like for know what would ’appen if I 
put off this, that, an’ t’other for please meself?” 
grumbled Mrs Mollard. “Do ’ee s’pose ” 

But Bessie was gone. She ran rapidly along the 
edge of the hillside till she came to the lane down 
which the carts passed to ’Postle Farm. She had 
not long to wait. Presently came the rumbling of 
heavy wheels, and Miah came in view. He had 
been doing some carting for Mr Mollard, and for 


204 


'POSTLE FARM. 


the past week he had returned from work at the 
same time. 

“Whoa!” he cried to his horse when he came 
alongside of Bessie, who was making a pretence of 
picking flowers in the hedge. “Why, ma-deear, 
*ee’m lookin' up so pink as a little blush rose ! ” 
Bessie grew a little pinker at the compliment 
“Ton me soul, since I seed ’ee last,” continued 
Miah, “ I ain’t thought upon nothin’ else. I be that 
took up about ’ee, Bessie, ’tis amazin’ ! ” 

“ Oh, Mr Sluman, ’ee be so much older nor what I 
be, I can’t for the life o’ me think what ’tis ’e can 
find so pleasuresome in a me-aid like I be I ” 

“ Why, my dear, look to yer beauty ! Come, now, 
an’ give me a kiss ! ” 

“ Oh, no !” said Bessie, “ mother wouldn’t like it !” 
“ Mother won’t never know, ma-deear 1 ” 

“ Oh, but, Mr Sluman, I don’t care for be kissed 
hinder ’edges — don’t seem proper for a maid.” 

“Ma-deear, you jus’ let me geeve ’ee a kiss, an’ 
you’ll find ’tis proper ’nough ! Why, I’ll be bound 
no man’s ever kissed ’ee, now ’ave ’em ? Boys, when 
they play ‘ Kiss in the Ring,’ belike — but no man 
what loves ’ee warm, my little dear, like I do 1 
Come, now, an’ ’ee’ll see ’ee’ll like it proper 1 ” 

He had drawn near to her, when a step behind 
caused them both to start guiltily aside. Crazy 
Cathie was coming towards them. Her lowering 
gaze was fixed steadily on Miah. Miah slouched off, 
and Bessie turned homewards. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 205 

Cathie hastened her steps and overtook her. 

“You middlin’ little fool!” she cried. “What be 
doin’ with a drunken ol’ varmint like Miah be.^ I 
live in’s ’ouse wi’ un, an’ I know un 1 ” 

“Mr Sluman’s always very kind to me,” said 
Bessie, “an’ you’ve no call for spake so spiteful.” 

“ Go ’long, you little fool I I’d like for shak’ the 
life out o’ ’ee! Honest maids don’t go trapesin’ 
round lanes wi’ great old drunkards ! I tell ’ee now 
plain, ’e be the blackest villain when a woman’s tied 
to un as ever I seed. ’Aven’t I seed my own aunt 
quak’ wi’ fear for un ? I tell ’ee plain, when ’ee 
comes ’ome in one o’ they mazey fits o’ drink, a 
woman goes in fear o’ ’er life wi’ un!” 

“You’m not buried yet, anyways,” said Bessie, 
tossing her head, and pleased with this feeble 
answer. 

Cathie smiled. 

“ I b’ain’t married to un ! ” she said. “ I kep’ un in’s 
place wi’ the avil eye. I mak’ un mind ’isself ! An’ 
I say this, God ’elp the woman ’e gets the maister 
’and of! She’ll drag ’erself to’s grave, as my aunt 
a-done!” 

“ Oh, ees,” said Bessie, “ you can speak up very 
fine! P’raps you want un for yerself.? I seed ’ee 
walkin’ with a gentleman a month or two agone. 
P’raps you can’t spare me a honest man ! ” 

Cathie looked at her with withering scorn ; then 
her face turned very pale, and she passed on, for 
she had no answer to make. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


One fine evening in December Cathie started off 
to Upcott, as she had done regularly every night 
since Miss Scottie had first undertaken to teach her. 
No matter what the weather was, she always pre- 
sented herself punctually at the old schoolhouse. 

This evening she was starting rather late, and her 
pace for the first quarter of a mile was hurried. 
Then she suddenly pulled herself up short. 

“You’m a wicked maid!” she exclaimed aloud, 
and turned back the way she had come. 

When she re-entered the kitchen Miah was lolling 
across the table nodding over a newspaper. Grand- 
fer was sitting by the fire, his fingers twitching 
convulsively over the arms of his chair. 

“ I be bit poo’ly I ” he said, looking up as the girl 
came towards him — “ bit poo’ly 1 I b’ain’t sure but 
what death’s a-took me ! ” 

Time *e did tak’ the ol’ varmint ! ” said Miah to 
himself, while he cast a glittering eye on the girl. 

“ What’s matter with ’ee ? ” asked Cathie, leaning 
over him gently. ** Be painsome ? ” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 20/ 

" Naw,” he answered slowly, and rolling his head 
from one side to the other. *‘Naw — not painsome 
^zactly, but I be mortal uneasy. ’Ave ’ee got a texty 
for zay ? ” 

** I can't a-mind one now,” said Cathie. Then she 
looked up suddenly. “ Grand fer,” she said, “theer's 
some one anigh 'ee 'oldin' of 'ee tremblin' ’ands.” 

The old man heaved a deep sigh. The painful 
restlessness left him. He sank back in his chair 
and slept. 

And there came to the girl, as if borne on music 
sweeter than the harp, 

“ Had you not stayed, I must have fled I ” 

“ Ah ! ” she cried, looking upwards and apparently 
addressing the air, “'twas 'ee then a-tuggin' at me 
heartstrings till I couldn' go no farder, but mus' 
come back!” 

“Crazy crittur!” muttered Miah, “spakin' up to 
nothin’ ! Who ever yert tell o' such a thing } ” 

Cathie remained kneeling by the old man’s chair 
till fatigue forced her to slip into a sitting posture ; 
and presently she too slept. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


" Catherine has not been for a whole week/’ said 
Miss Scottie. I cannot understand it.” 

“She’s such fun too!” said Madge, looking up 
with a yawn. “I declare I quite miss her.” 

“ Sarah tells me she has the reputation of being a 
witch.” 

Madge laughed. 

“Well, my dear, there are strange and unaccount- 
able things in the world. Some say she is crazy.” 

“Well, we can contradict that, any way,” said 
Madge. “There’s Laury calling.” 

Laury was Mrs Eliot’s little boy. He had taken 
a violent fancy to Madge, and had asked as an 
especial treat to spend the day and night with her. 

“ Madge,” said Laury, rather too closely on the top 
of his prayers to be termed exactly devout, “ Sarah 
says Cathie’s got the avil eye.” 

So have I — two.” 

“ What is the avil eye ? ” 

“ An eye that wherever it looks brings disease and 
death.” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 209 

But yours doesn’t.” 

“ It does as much as Catherine’s.” 

“ Sarah says Cathie’s got avil eye ; she knows it 
for a fact.” 

“ Sarah’s an idiot* 

“ But Sarah says every one says she has. I do 
hope Cathie won’t cast the avil eye on my rabbits ! ” 

Madge burst out laughing, but Miss Scottie cried — 

“Oh, my precious boy, don’t think of such a 
thing ! It is not possible. No one has the power 
to harm either you or your rabbits ! ” 

The little boy gave a sigh. 

“ What a nice world it would be if they hadn’t ! ” 
was all he said as he settled himself to sleep. 

Madge laughed again. 

“Oh, my dear!” cried Miss Scottie, “you don’t 
take the world seriously enough ! ” 

“You take it seriously enough for us both, dear 
old Cocksey ! ” replied Madge, and putting her arm 
round her waist and blowing a kiss to the boy, she 
led Cocksey downstairs. 

“Joking apart, though,” she continued, as they 
took their seats on either side of the fireplace, “ I can 
be very serious when I like. I want to know what 
all this information you are cramming into Cathie is 
going to do for her } ” 

“The child wants to learn, my dear. But I won’t 
say I’m not troubled with the same question. She 
wants to learn, and I feel somehow God’s in it, and 
I must teach her.” 


210 


’POSTLE FARM. 


** You*re sure it isn’t just that you love teaching?” 
said Madge slily. 

“ Oh, my dear ! ” cried Cocksey, too inexpressibly 
shocked for further words. 

“ Have you been thinking ? ” said Madge presently. 

Our lease is up here in a month, and we haven’t 
the ghost of a notion where to go ! ” 

" Oh, dear ! I thought perhaps you were thinking 
better of it, and were going to remain on.” 

“ I can’t. The agent told me to-day the cottage 
is re-let.” 

Cocksey sat looking the picture of despair. 

“I’ve been making inquiries everywhere,” said 
Madge, “ but they say there isn’t a ghost of a chance 
till Lady Day!” 

“ What ! not till March ? What is to become of 
all the animals ? ” 

“ Well, we shall have to turn in somewhere else 
and out again.” 

Cocksey groaned. 

“ My dear,” she said, gathering up her work, “ don’t 
let’s talk of it to-night, or I shan’t sleep. Either we 
must play Patience, or I must go straight to bed ! ” 

“ Patience for preference ! ” said Madge, hastily 
fetching the cards. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


On Sunday evening Bessie Mollard slipped away 
from Stibb Farm without being observed. 

She ran out across the fields in the direction of 
Tostle Farm. She wanted to ask Cathie a question. 
She was not afraid Cathie would bear her any ill- 
will for allowing Miah’s attention. Cathie never 
bore ill - will, though in her moments of sudden 
passion Bessie feared her. 

But when Bessie reached 'Postle Farm, Cathie 
could not stay to speak to her: her grandfather 
was ill ; she thought he was dying. 

Bessie was so much excited at the news of such 
an interesting event, that she ran back to her 
mother’s, exclaiming breathlessly as she entered the 
kitchen — 

“ Oh, mother, only think ! Grandfer to Tostle 
Varm’s a-dying!” 

“Who telled ’ee.^” cried Mrs Mollard, pausing in 
her task of laying the evening meal. 

“Cathie telled me just this minute when I was 
over theer!” 


212 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“ Over theer !” cried Mrs Mollard. ''Overthcer! 
Now only look to it if the pigs don’t die What did 
’ee want for go over theer for ? I dunno what be 
a-comin’ to ’ee. Yer never ’tend to what I tell ’ee. 
I telled ’ee only this forenoon for ’tend the flower- 
nats, an’ ’tain’t done ! You’m gettin’ so fast an’ so 
swing an’ so hairy, there b’ain’t no doin’ nothin’ 
with ’ee!” 

Bessie took off her hat and threw it on the sofa, 
annoyed that her exciting news had fallen flat 
because her tongue had slipped. 

“ Now put ’e away I ” cried Mrs Mollard. “ I 
thought when you was born I’d ’ave a comfort in 
’ee! But ’tis spiteful wickedness with ’ee all day 
long!” 

Mr Mollard entered the kitchen at this moment, 
and Bessie ran to him. 

“Vather, only think! Grandfer to Tostle Varm’s 
a-dyin’!” 

“ Dyin’ be ’e ? Now theer’ll be ructions ! That 
theer Miah ’ll be for marryin’ o’ the maid ; an’ what 
can a poor crazy like ’er be do ? ” 

Bessie flushed scarlet and tossed her head. 

“ Mr Sluman don’t ’old wi’ crazy maids like Cathie 
be ! ’E likes ’em differ’nt ! ” she muttered. 

“Grandfer was a quietsome neighbour,” said Mr 
Mollard, seating himself and beginning to unlace his 
heavy boots. “ I’m sorry for ’ear he’s nigh ’is end. 
Decent, respectable, ’ard-workin’ man ’e was ; but 
'avin’ no women-folk to fend for ’n drove un back- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 213 

*ards. I mind the time when ’e used to tak’ a score 
o’ pounds o’ butter to market reg’lar. 01’ Mrs 
Tythycott was a honest, ’ard-workin’ body. ’Twas 
a evil day when he lost ’er. Annie waren’t no sort 
or kind o’ use, poor soul ; an’ as for the maid, I 
mind when ’er corned up from Plymouth, after ’er 
vather was drownded, ’er was an amazin’ pretty 
little me-aid — an’ Grandfer ’e was clean mazed over 
’er. Queer ’er shiidd o’ gone crazed like; but I 
b’lieve Grandfer dotes on ’er same as ever ! Well, I 
be sorry for ’ear poor ol’ man’s gwin ! Bes’ ways go 
over, mother, an’ len’ a han’ ! ” 

Mrs Mollard turned round upon her husband. 

“ You listen now. Bob, if you please ! I’ve ’ad the 
avil eye on me wunst, an’ I don’t put myself in’s way 
o’t again, never no more ! Look to they pigs us 
lost ! As fine a litter as ever I seed, an’ as careful 
a sow as ever farried — an’ what did ’er do ? Why, ’er 
squat four of ’em — ’er as never squatted one in ’er life 
afore ! An* what happened to the nine as was lef ’ ? 
Didn’ fits tak’ two of un ? An’ wasn’ the third so 
weakly us ’ad to do away wi’ un That a-left us six ; 
an’ when they was cornin’ nigh market-time, didn’ 
one o’ un fall in water-butt seven o’clock o’ Sunday 
night, when we was all to chapel, an’ drownded her- 
self? That was five — four of ’em us sold, an’ the 
fifth us couldn’ fatten, do what us would wi’ un ! 
’Ave ’ee forgot it ? If ’ee ’ave, I aren’t ! An’ I tell 
’ee straight I b’ain’t gwin ! Theer’s Basie, too, gala- 
wantin’ over theer jus’ as us a-cast the spell an’ 


214 


*POSTLE FARM. 


bring’th un back again ! Mind me now if *er aren’t ! 
I b’ain’t no vuool ! I knows wheer the Davil be, an’ 
I avides un ! Them volks as ’as got a villum over 
t’eyes o’ un can please theirsels ! But to ask me 
for go where avil eye is, I won’t do’t ; an’ if Grand fer 
can’t die easy wi’out me, ’e mus’ die ’ard, for I b’ain’t 
a-gwin nigh un, not though the judgment-day 
clapped ’isself right down on the top o’ me for’t — 
so theer!” 

“Easy, easy, ’oman, wi’ yer tongue,” said Mr 
Mollard gently. 

Mrs Mollard, as was her wont after an excite- 
ment of this sort, sat down and, throwing her apron 
over her head, began to cry. 

“I’m sure,” she sobbed, “no one can’t say I wouldn’ 
be neighbourly wheer I could ! . But I’ve my chil’ern 
for think on; an’ o’ coorse, Bob, if ’ee wish it, ’ee 
know I aren’t gainsayed ’ee nothin’. I ’opes I knows 
the Book wheer the ’oman be ordained to submection. 
Whatever ’ee’ve telled me. Bob, I’ve always a-done 
it I mind thiccy ’oman as ’ad a canster in ’er 
stomick, I went ’fore an’ tended same as if it ’ad 
a-been my own chil’ ! ’Ee can’t deny. Bob, what I’ve 
always a-done my part ! ” 

“ Ma-deear,” said Mr Mollard, turning his eyes in 
the direction of the supper-table. “ I never denied 
nothin’ ! What’ve ’ee got vor zupper ? ” 

He sat down imperturbably good-humoured. 
His wife’s long oration was no more to him than the 
happy twitter of swallows in the eaves. Indeed he 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 21 5 

would have missed her volubility had she suddenly 
become a silent woman. 

The family gathered round the table — the rosy- 
cheeked boys, the blue-eyed Bessie ; while the crow- 
ing baby danced in its mother’s tired arms. She 
looked with proud eyes as she saw the plentiful 
plates passed round, and back again for second 
helpings. 

" Don’ ’em eat ! ” she said to her husband. 
"Johnny’s got a master appetite!” 

" Basie’s all zo big ’cordin’ to ! ” said Mr Mollard, 
cramming his mouth with a large forkful of toad-in- 
the-hole. 

" Ees ; I was the same when I was a me-aid, an* 
now ’tis only pickin’ at ol’ rummagy stuff what b’ain’t 
no use to one’s in’ards like.” 

"Tak’ a jug o’ beer; that’ll vetch ’ee appetite!" 
said Mr Mollard, handing her his tankard. 

“ I don’ never like for tak’ sperit an’ sichlike ; 
but mebbe ’tis persumptious, zo I’ll tak’ a drop!" 
said Mrs Mollard, raising her husband’s tankard and 
sipping a little. 

" Pshaw !’’ he cried. "’Tain’t no manner o’ use, 
’oman, for go smellin’ oft ! Drink it down proper. 
I shall ’ave to drench ’ee wi’t, like us did ol’ ‘ Wild- 
a-go ’ las’ winter ! ’’ 

He made a feint of doing it, at which all the 
children clapped their hands and laughed up- 
roariously. 

" Now, now, ma - deears ! ” said Mr Mollard. 


2T6 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“You’m gettin’ above yerselves ! You’m makkin* 
noise ^nough for scare the pigs ! IVe a-finished 
now, mother. Give me the babby, an’ ate a bit 
yerself! ” 

He rose from the table and seated himself by the 
fire, where he lit his evening pipe, and dandled 
his baby, while the March wind rose outside and 
shook the casement. But within was Peace and 
Plenty and Contentment. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


Different was the interior of Tostle Farm. 

In the kitchen the man Miah sat counting his 
chickens before they were hatched. 

Upstairs Grandfer lay, leaving the chicken he had 
hatched through long years of toil. 

By his side sat his granddaughter, holding his 
feeble hands, till her own life was drawn out, and 
her teeth chattered with the cold. 

The March wind blew, and howled, and whistled. 

“Tis a -most as if ’twas waitin’ for carr’ un 
off!” his granddaughter said beneath her breath, as 
a sudden blast, louder and fiercer than the last, 
threatened to blow the window in. “As if ’twas 
a-howlin’ for’n, an’ was that impatienable, couldn’ 
wait no longer.” 

The rattling of the casement roused the old 
man. 

“ I’ve a-got some’at partic’lar for zay, Cathie, ma- 
deear,” he said in a low voice, and speaking at long 
intervals. “ Go now ’fore to chimneypiece an’ tak’ 
out one o’ they ’inder bricks — ’ee know I never 


2I8 


’POSTLE FARM. 


would let ’ee scour the virepleace. Theer’s a letter 
theer. Tak’ thiccy over to’s Lordship’s to Upcott 
Hall. Tak’ it ’eeself — zee un ’eeself. Don’t ’ee 
let Miah know ’bout it Slip out back way over 
to Hall. ’Ear what ’ee saith when he read’th 
yon letter. Bring a neighbour in when I’m gone, 
ma-deear. ’Tis a lone me-aid, Loord A’mighty! 
'Twasn’t never noan o’ my wills. Loord, I was 
druv to’t!” 

Cathie groped under the fireplace, and after a 
while she found a loosened stone. She pulled it out 
with some difficulty, and the letter that had lain 
underneath she placed in her bosom. 

“ Grandfer,” she said, stooping over him, “ I 
dreamed o’ thiccy letter.” 

“ Dramed ? Ees, us be all drames more nor less,” 
said the old man feebly. “All drames. I mind 
when I was a young un ’twadn’ zo ! Things 
seemed mighty real then ; but now they’m drames, 
all drames — only drames ! ” 

“ Cathie, ma-deear,” he said presently, “ I wish I’d 
a-done moore for ’ee. I never thought ’ee crazed. 
I was proud on ’ee ! But some ways I couldn’ get 
anigh ’ee of le-ate years ! Oh, Loord, I wish I’d 
a-done moore vor the me-aid ! ” 

“’Ee’ve a-done ’ee part, Gandfer,” she answered, 
“an’ God’ll bless ’ee vor’t!” 

With these comfortin’ words in his ears the old 
man fell asleep. 

Miah came stumbling upstairs to bed. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 219 

“ Be livin’ yet ? ” he inquired, thrusting his head 
in through the door. 

But the girl was sleeping too, and did not 
hear. 

Miah looked at the two, and hesitated. Then he 
shivered and went out. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


Grandfer died in the night, and Mrs Mollard 
came over in the morning to do what she could. 
She was too timid herself to touch the corpse, so 
she brought over a friend who patted it into 
shape, and left the ghastly thing to be pressed 
ultimately into a coffin a size too small, which 
Miah had obtained cheap from an undertaker, 
who had made a mistake in a more particular 
order, and had the awkward thing hanging on 
his hands. 

“ Tis a capital corffin,” the man had said, tapping 
it with his knuckles. “ Good stout helem. I mad' 
a mistake someways an’ measured the ol’ girl 
wrong, an’ they was that partic’lar they wouldn’t 
’ave it. Kep’ the corpse ’angin’ about, it did, too. 
However, ’e’s a bargain for you, if you like to 
tak’ un.” 

So Miah took him. He had always a fancy 
for bargains. 

“ Got un a’ready 1 ” exclaimed the women, when 
he drove up with the coffin in the butt. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 221 

“ Ees. I ordered'n avore,” said Miah, who wished 
to pocket the money he had saved. 

What ! avore *e was dead ? ” cried Mrs Mollard. 
“ Who ever yert tell o’ such a thing ? ” 

“ ’E looks a bit shoort,” said Widow Beer, who 
was a connoisseur in such matters. “Be zure 
Grandfer was a-measured right?” 

“Ees,” said Miah; “measured un meself.” 

There was a vast amount of talking when the 
coffin was got upstairs, but Cathie remained 
below. She had been chilled to death sitting up 
with Grandfer, for he had sapped her young life, 
and left her faint and dizzy. 

Presently Miah and the two women came down- 
stairs again, and Mrs Mollard turned to Grandfer’s 
chair, and was on the point of sitting down, when 
Cathie said — 

“Tak’ care; you’m a-sittin’ on Grandfer.” 

Mrs Mollard screamed, and jumped away. 

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she cried. “With a crazy 
maid below-stairs, an’’ a coorpse up in chumber, my 
in’ards be so jumped I dunno ’ow for bear meself. 
When I go up in chumber ’tis the coorpse, an* 
when I come down ’tis the me-aid. Don’t ’ee look 
to me likey thiccy, Cathie ! ” she screamed. “ Tak’ 
away these avil eyes o’ yourn. Oh, Loord, save 
us now, ’er’s lookin’ to the baby!” 

“I wouldn’ rouse *er,” said Widow Beer, in an 
undertone ; “ ’er may turn on me an’ tak’ away my 
repudiation.” 


922 


’rOSTLE FARM. 


“I always telled Bob us didn’ ought never to 
^ave come,” said Mrs Mollard, beginning to 
whimper. “ Men be that masterful ! An’ zee 
what’s a-comin’ of it all ! Grandfer in thiccy cheer 
just as I was gwin for sit on un — wi’ my legs 
dotty for’t so much — which means, zure an’ 
zartain, the nextest coorpse what’s a-took is me; 
an’ don’ ’ee never zay as I didn’ a-zay’t when 
the ’and o’ death’s upon me. Loord a’ mercy on 
us! I’m gettin’ that twitchy in my nerves I can’t 
a-bear myself ’ere no longer. I feel my ’in’ards 
a-gwin away no bigger nor a pea, an’ col’ watter 
a-rinnen down my back in streams, an' wracks in 
my stumjick 1 ” 

Cathie turned and looked at her. 

“The water rinnen be Annie’s baby as was 
drownded. He’s jus’ standin’ ’nigh ’ee. Theer! 
theer ! Zee un } ” 

The woman gave a piercing shriek that rang 
through the house, and, without waiting to put on 
her bonnet, she caught the baby in her arms and 
fled from the house. 

“ Loord A’mighty 1 ” cried Widow Beer, clapping 
her hands to her head, “ I b’lieve I be mos’ skeered 
meself!” 

“ ’Ave ’ee ever yert tell o’ a ol’ man what geeve 
a ’oman zome’at for ’erself an’ zome’at for his 
dotter, an’ ’er kep’ the both > The ’oman was a 
widder. I’ve yert tell, an’ ” 

But Widow Beer had caught up the clothes that 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 223 

belonged to herself and Mrs Mollard, and had 
made for the door, through which she passed with 
all speed. 

Zure the me-aid’s a witch,” she muttered as she 
stumbled down the steps. 

Cathie smiled to herself as the door closed be- 
hind Widow Beer. 

“ I’ve a-got the reeds o’ mun now ! ” she said. “ I 
can *ave a cup o’ tay in p’ace an’ qui’tness ; an* if 
Miah begins for worrit, why, I can get up over- 
stairs an* sit ’long o* the coorpse, for he*s skcert 
on t. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


Poor old Grandfer’s funeral was a melancholy 
affair. 

The mourners were but few. The Devon damp 
dripped from the tombstones, and made the air 
heavy and unwholesome. 

One little wizened old man, with white hair, came 
hurrying with a shuffling step to the graveside. 
Cathie’s dark eyes pierced him through and 
through. When the service was over, she said 
to him — 

“ Good arternoon ! ” and the old man bowed, 
and shuffled off hastily. 

*‘Who be ’e.?” inquired Miah. 

“I met un to ’torney’s when I was a little maid,” 
said Cathie. 

*‘Met’n to ’torney’s.?” cried Miah. 

Then it occurred to him to follow the stranger. 

When he reached the road down which Grandfer 
had driven with Polly the Thursday before he 
took Cathie to market, he knew the chances were 
he would pass under the ivied gateway through 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 22 $ 

which the flanks of Polly had disappeared. He 
quickened his steps, overtook the stranger, and, 
outdistancing him, entered a roadside inn. 

“ Who be this a-dagglin’ ’long the roo-ad } ” he 
inquired of the host, peering, as he spoke, over 
the muslin blind in the bar-room. 

The host glanced out, and replied — 

“ Mr Pringwood — valett, and subsequentially 
butler, to Hupcott ’All for two-an’-forty years.” 

'‘Ah!” said Miah, in the same tone as he had 
ejaculated the same syllable six years before when 
Polly’s white flanks had disappeared beneath the 
ivied tower of Upcott Hall. 

Then, calling for an extra glass, he wended his 
way back to ’Postle Farm. 

He expected to find Cathie there before him, 
but this was not the case. He waited up till 
past twelve ; then, in despair, he went to bed. 

When he rose the next morning he looked about 
eagerly for her, hoping that during the night she 
had returned ; but through the whole of the day 
she remained invisible. 

Miah had thought when Grandfer died his oppor- 
tunity would come. It was the thought of this 
that had made him keep his attentions to Bessie 
well under control. Cathie, the inheritor of old 
Grandfer’s savings, was the match for him if he 
could get her, and Grandfer did not linger on too 
long. 

Her disappearance disturbed him. He wondered 
P 


226 


’POSTLE FARM. 


whether anything had happened to her, — whether, 
in her wanderings, the strong current of the river 
had swept her away. 

Then he decided she was making a move in that 
mysterious history of hers. How could he get to 
the bottom of it.^ What was her history.? Was 
it merely the usual one .? Was there money in it ? 
Was she really ignorant of that history.? Had 
Grandfer gone in silence to the tomb .? — that 
silence which the ignorant believe is never broken .? 
Or had Grandfer confided in the girl before he 
died, and should he be able, with perseverance, to 
worm it out of her.? 

He had not had much hope even at the first, 
and now that Cathie had disappeared, of course 
he had less than ever. Still, he could not help 
clinging to the belief that Cathie had money 
settled on her from some unknown source. In 
any case, she had now inherited all Grandfer’s toil- 
some savings, and the farm, ‘ to the end of the 
year, was hers, rent free. She was worth marry- 
ing. But how could he marry her since she had 
disappeared .? It was a sad predicament. 

All that day passed without a sign of her. Sup- 
posing something had happened to her.? Then, 
sure, as next of kin, he would come in for Grand- 
fer’s money. Or stay, the butler over at Upcott 
Hall was a cousin of Grandfer’s. He would be 
counted the nearest of kin. The best plan, then, 
would be to sell ofif as much of the stock as 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 22J 

possible, and pocket the money, and make off 
with it if necessary. He went to bed rejoicing 
at this thought. 

His joy, however, was short-lived, for at about 
ten o’clock on Monday, just as his hope had 
almost reached certainty, Mr Gingham Fox, 
auctioneer and valuer, drove into the yard, and, 
alighting from his trap, with a clerk and a note- 
book, beckoned Miah, and desired, with official 
brevity, to be conducted over the lands, out- 
houses, and dwelling-house of ’Postle Farm. 

Miah stared. 

“ Wheels the me-aid } ” he inquired at last. 

How should I know } ” said the valuer, testily. 
" I have come to value the crops and the stock, 
not the maid ! ” 

Miah put his arms akimbo, and looked at the 
valuer doggedly. 

“ I’m master ’ere,” he said ; “you a-show me what 
right ’ee’ve got for come ’long meddlin’ wi’ my 
concarns ! ” 

“ Show the paper,” said Mr Gingham Fox, passing 
with a business-like air to the pig-sties. 

Miah could not read excepting plain print, but he 
glared at the paper with an angry red face. 

“ ’Ee can vind out what ’ee will for ’ee self,” he 
said at last. “ I b’ain’t gwin for show ’ee ! ” 

The clerk hurried to his chief with the news. 

“No matter,” said he, producing a map ; “ this will 


serve. 


228 


'POSTLE FARM. 


Miah slouched round after them, scowling from 
under this doorway and that. 

“They pegs een’s varder ’ouse be mine,” he said 
at a venture. “ I bought’n to market o’ Saturday.” 

But the valuer took no notice. 

If Miah had not been a coward, it is probable, in 
the fury of his baffled avarice, he would have thrown 
himself on his tormentors. As it was, he merely 
followed them at a distance, and when they had 
driven out of the yard he killed the best pig, and 
prepared to enjoy roast pork to the week’s end. 

A man, however, arrived in the afternoon, and, 
paying him his v/eek’s wages, told him to seek work 
elsewhere. 

With oaths and curses Miah demanded an 
explanation. 

“ Wheer’s the me - aid ? ” he kept repeating, 
“ thiccy avil-eyed witch ? ” 

Finally he placed himself at the farmhouse door. 

“ I b’ai’nt gwin vor lave ’ere till I ’ear the rights 
o’t If the me-aid be dade, these yer varm, an’ all 
what’s on’t is, be mine, an’ I b’ain’t a-gwin for budge 
for no like you be ! ” 

A policeman settled the question two hours later, 
and, cursing and swearing and violently abusive, 
Miah was dragged from the farm. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


Lord Frobisher had finished dinner, and had 
retired to his library. Cathie, who had her letter 
to deliver, rang the bell at the front door. The 
footman opened it. Had it been any one else but 
Crazy Cathie there, he would have bidden her go 
round to the back. But Crazy Cathie’s evil eye 
was too well known in the neighbourhood, and he 
dared not offend her. He bade her be seated in 
the hall. 

As luck would have it, Pringwood had gone into 
Upcott on business, or Cathie would never have 
seen the squire. As it was. Brushwood entered the 
library, and, going up to the hearthrug, addressed 
his master respectfully. 

**If you please, sir, a young woman has called 
and wishes to see you.” 

see no one,” Lord Frobisher answered. “Since 
you have been in my service over two years, and 
have not learnt this fact, you may take your month’s 
notice.” 

The man bowed. As he reached the door Cathie 


230 


*P0STLE FARM. 


pushed past him and entered. The footman put 
out an arresting hand, but she gave him a defiant 
glance from her fiery eye. The man, out of temper 
at the loss of his situation, made no further effort 
to stop her. He rather rejoiced at the thought of 
Lord Frobisher’s annoyance. 

Cathie came forward till she stood opposite the 
squire. She had never curtseyed since her child- 
hood, and she did not curtsey now. 

Lord Frobisher was too much a gentleman to 
show his anger; but he flushed slightly. 

“You have made a mistake, young woman,” he 
said ; “ this is the wrong room for you.” 

“ I’ve a letter for ’ee,” said Cathie. “ Go out, 
young man,” she added to Brushwood ; “ this ’ere 
business is private.” 

The footman hesitated, but receiving no command 
from his master to stay, he withdrew. 

Lord Frobisher took the letter she held out to him. 

“ I believe this concludes your business,” he said, 
turning to the bell. But Cathie stayed him. 

“ I want ’ee for read it now,” she said. 

“ That is quite unnecessary,” replied Lord 
Frobisher. “The answer can be sent to you.” 

“ Read it now ! ” she repeated. 

And Lord Frobisher, because he was old perhaps, 
and any violent assertion of his will was attended 
by serious results, or because the power of the girl 
was great, or because, perhaps, a doubtful past had 
taken some of his courage from him, obeyed. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 23 1 

He placed his pince-nez on his nose, wincing a 
little as he did so, for he hated to own his natural 
force abated. Bending towards the lamp, he glanced 
over the letter with the intention of satisfying the 
girl by the promise of a favourable answer; but 
before he had got over a couple of words he began 
to tremble violently. Twice he tried to speak ; 
twice he failed. 

At last he hissed out, while his hands gripped 
the arm of his chair till they were white and 
numb — 

“ It’s false ! it’s false ! Damn your impertinence ! 
I say it’s false! By God, I’ll have you put into 
confinement for a madwoman ! There’s no truth 
in this!” 

Then the face of Cathie changed. She was a 
tall woman, but she grew taller. She was absolutely 
ignorant of the contents of the letter, but she remem- 
bered Grandfer’s dying words. She felt within her- 
self that a crisis in her life had come. 

Lord Frobisher, peering at her through the general 
gloom that pervaded the room, could see her only 
indistinctly. In his anxiety to see her more plainly 
he attempted to tear off the dark shade that covered 
the lamp, and which was put on to throw the 
strongest light possible on his book or paper — it 
was always the lamp with him that was dim and not 
his sight. But the shade was heavy, and he had to 
take two shaking hands. 

Very slowly, with his weak fingers, he raised the 


232 


’POSTLE FARM. 


shade, and the light became more and more general, 
almost like the dawning of a day. 

When the shade was off he looked up. The 
powerful light streamed on the beautiful face and 
figure of the girl as she stood motionless, haughtily 
regarding the man who had dared to accuse her dead 
grandfather of lying. 

When Lord Frobisher’s eyes fell upon her, not 
being a woman, no sound came from him, but his 
jaw dropped, and his face turned an ashen grey. 

Cathie perceived at once the advantage was 
now on her side, though the reason she could not 
divine. The man before her was in abject terror. 
While he was in terror hers was the advantage, and 
she did not move for fear of dispelling it. 

At length Lord Frobisher gasped in a low voice, 
dry and hard as the speech of an automaton, yet 
intensely distinct — 

“ Are you a living woman ? ” Then smiting his 
hand to his forehead, “ God help me, it’s she ! It’s 
she!” 

He sank into his chair, but only for a moment 
With a despairing effort he rose and unlocked his 
secretaire, hastily catching up a pile of bank-notes. 

“If it’s a spirit — we shall see — we shall see ” 

he kept muttering. “A spirit hath not flesh and 
blood — it won’t take bank-notes I ” 

He looked over his shoulder. 

“ Still there,” he muttered. 

Then the woman in Cathie’s heart spoke. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 233 


“Coorse I be!” she said, with the humouring 
tenderness one uses towards children. “ What did 
'ee s’pose ? I be a woman right ’nough — leastaways 
I s’pose I be — I never yert tell no other.” 

“ Can you keep a secret ? — will this help you ? ” he 
said eagerly, holding out the bank-notes to her, and 
thrusting them into her hand. 

Cathie had no secret to keep. She had never 
received of charity. Her first impulse was to throw 
the bank-notes in his face, but something stayed her. 
She took them quietly. 

‘‘When these are gone there are more,” he said 
with a distressing eagerness. 

Cathie nodded and moved to the door. When 
she got outside, she walked home thoughtfully. 

“ Theer’s a purpose in’t,” she said to herself. “ Now 
what be ’t? I’d like for know. Theer’s some’at 
ahind — some’at I never thought on, nor can’t think 
on now nether. ‘When these are gone there are 
more.’ Well, never mind. Crazy Cathie can mind 
’er own geese ! ” 

That night, when Pringwood came back, he was 
summoned to his master’s presence. He came in 
suspecting the truth, for Brushwood had told him 
something of what had transpired during the evening. 
When he met the old man’s fiery eye, he knew there 
was trouble in store. 

The two looked at each other, the master from 
the arm-chair, out of which he had twice vainly 


234 


*POSTLE FARM. 


striven to rise. He tried to speak, but the jaw only 
worked convulsively, and a little foam dropped from 
the lip. 

“You villain!” he hissed at last; “you villain! 
Leave my sight and never return ! ” 

The old servant threw himself on his knees. 

“Sir! sir !” he cried. “Yer lordship! Think of 
God Almighty ! Think of the Judgment Seat ! 
No ’arm b’ain’t come to ’ee through it, an’ less o’ 
hell hereafter I Tak’ it easy, my lord ; tak’ it easy ! 
You’ll bring ’eeself to ’arm ! Oh, tak’ it easy, my 
lord ! Don’t be hard on me ! I done it for the 
best!” 

He leant forward and gently stroked the withered 
hand of his master with his own withered fingers. 

“ I’m all ’ee’ve a-got left, my lord ! Don’t ’ee go 
for be angered with me ! ” 

Then rising to his feet, and raising his hand to 
heaven — 

“ I swear to God I’m thankful I done it ! An’ you 
may order me away, but I’ll never leave ’ee ! Your 
secrets is my secrets.” Then, speaking in a rapid 
undertone, and gathering intensity with every word, 
“ When the las’ dread hour comes, my lord, an’ you 
come to face your Maker, you’ll thank me yet ! An’ 
you dursn't send me from you ! Think, my lord, 
when your mind’s fitful like, an’ the words burst 
from ’ee that ’ee’ve kep’ dark these seventeen year 
an’ more, who’ll ’earken an’ never tell, but me? 
No, my lord, ’ee can’t do wi’out me ; an’ yer know,” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 235 

he finished, with a sob, 'ow I’d die for ’ee ! 
Aren’t I lived a life as foreign to my natur’ as sun- 
shine is to night? An’ why? For love of ’ee, my 
lord, for love of ’ee ! The very milk o’ human kind- 
ness ’as froze in my blood for love of ’ee, my lord, 
for love of ’ee ! I’ve counted all the goodness I learnt 
to my mother’s knee as dung that I might serve ’ee 
the better — an’ all for love of ’ee, my lord, for love of 
’ee! Tak’ back the cruel words that I mus’ leave 
’ee — for if I leave ’ee at all, ’tis my dead body they 
mus’ carry over threshold, for I’ll cling to ’ee yet in 
life!” 

He threw himself at his master’s feet, and his long, 
tearless sobs filled the heavy silence. 

A thousand conflicting emotions chased themselves 
over the master’s face. One moment loathing, spurn- 
ing, fierce hatred ; the next, desolation, fear, bitter- 
ness. Then slowly the face settled into calm. 

When the old man ventured at length to raise 
himself, there was one slow tear on the master’s 
cheek. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


The same night of Grandfer’s funeral Cathie had 
turned up at the old schoolhouse. She came in a cart, 
and before any one had time to interfere, she had 
ordered the carrier to carry her large oak chest 
and various parcels, and deposit them inside the 
cottage verandah. 

Madge and Cocksey both rushed out. 

I be gwin for stay along o’ you,” said Cathie, 
calmly. 

Madge turned aside to hide her laughter, while 
Miss Scottie took the girl’s hand and patted it in 
order to gain time for thought. The sight of a 
large red and white bundle being deposited on the 
doorstep upset Madge so much that she ran away to 
have her laugh out behind the kitchen door. The 
utter calmness of the whole proceeding struck her as 
quite too funny ; and poor Cocksey’s helpless dis- 
comfiture delighted her. 

Miss Scottie continued to pat Cathie’s hand, and 
to see with the rest of the world that of course 
she was crazy. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 23; 

Then Cathie suddenly said, “P’raps, though, ’ee 
don’t want me ! ” and Miss Scottie, being at best an 
impulsive, compassionate soul, took both Cathie’s 
hands between her own and cried — 

“ My dear, of course we want you ! We want you 
very much ! ” 

Then she saw what perhaps no one but Temple 
had seen since the days of Cathie’s childhood — 
soft human tears spring into her defiant eyes. 

She turned away abruptly. 

“ That’s my chesty ! ” she said, nodding at the 
gaunt old chest that held all the best of her earthly 
belongings. “I would a- stayed to ’Postle Varm 
if it ’adn’t a-been for bein’ of a scholard. I mus’ be 
a scholard ! ” 

“What is becoming of the farm, my dear?” 

“Well, I dunno zac’ly. I thought mebbe ’ee could 
think on some’at” 

Here Madge arrived, looking rather red in the 
face. 

“ Very glad to see you, Cathie,” she said. 

Cathie looked doubtful. 

“ Well, someways I was a - drawed here,” she 
said. 

“ Cathie has left ’Postle Farm ! ” said Cocksey. 

“ Who has taken it on ? ” 

“No one aren’t. No one won’t ’fore Lady 
Day!” 

Then Madge caught Cocksey by the arm. 

“ I will I ” she said. 


2SS 


’POSTLE FARM. 


And Cocksey fell back on the sofa more dead 
than alive, while Cathie burst into tears. 

“ Oh I ” she cried, “ my ’cart’s a-bound up in un ! 
If ’ee’ll but let me milky an’ tend the pigs an’ 
poultry, I’ll be scholard atween whiles, an’ I won’ 
ask no wages ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


No sooner said than done. Madge never let the 
grass grow under her feet. A valuer, as we have 
seen, was speedily despatched to Tostle Farm, and 
in a few days' time Cathie had a nice little sum 
in the bank beside her grandfather’s savings. 

Before moving into the house, it was necessary to 
have painters and masons at work. Madge was in 
a wild state of excitement. Her first view of Tostle 
Farm delighted her. She could wish for nothing 
better than to end her days there, she said. 

Meanwhile Cathie stayed on in the little cottage 
till ’Postle Farm should be fit to receive them. She 
studied every morning with Miss Scottie. In the after- 
noon she always disappeared. And they did not ask 
her where she went — they let her have her freedom. 

“ Poor ol’ Grandfer ! ” said Cathie one day, as she 
opened her lesson-books. 

“We were so sorry to hear you had lost him,” 
said Miss Scottie. 

“ I an’t lost ’im ! ’e be ’ere ’bout as usual ! ” 

“ Surely he’s buried by now ? ” 


240 


'POSTLE FARM, 


“ Ees, hc*s buried. They may dig dark *oles for 
folk an’ stick mun in, but, bless ’ee life, they don’t 
stay theer ! ” 

But Miss Scottie was nothing if not conscientious. 
It was not right to allow the girl to remain ignorant 
Accordingly in the evening she asked her — 

“ Cathie, what makes you think your grandfather 
is not in his grave ? ” 

But Cathie remained obstinately silent. 

One afternoon Miss Scottie and Madge had been 
to see how ’Postle Farm was progressing. 

'‘Suppose,” said Miss Scottie, as they neared 
Stibb Farm, “we call in here? They might throw 
some light on Cathie, because she really does seem 
queer sometimes.” 

Mrs Mollard curtseyed when the smart little pony- 
carriage drove up to her door, and dusted a chair for 
her visitor. There was nothing she more enjoyed 
than a visit from the gentry. Miss Scottie was not a 
great adept at leading conversation into a deserted 
channel. But their neighbour’s death was naturally 
uppermost in the thoughts of the Mollards. 

“ I do trusty, now,” said Mrs Mollard, “ ’us ’ill ’ave 
volks as is more neighbourly nor what they was. 
Theer waren’t nothin’ neighbourly ’bout mun. 
They was so lonesome like they skeered volks. 
Poor ol’ Grandfer, back along when Master brought 
un over ’ere first, ’e was a kind an’ neighbourly ol’ 
man ; but ’e turned off queerish. ’E took in’s ’ead 
volk was inquisitive, an’ I’m sure more nor neigh- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 241 

hourly interest I never took in nobody. But Miah 
’e was always — well, excuse me for sayin’ of it — but 
*e was always a avil-lookin’ feller; an’ as for the 
me-aid — well, ’er was the wust o’ the lot o’ mun ! ” 

*‘What was the matter with the maid?” asked 
Miss Scottie. “Do you mean Cathie?” 

“ Ees, the very same, ma’am ! Oh, well, ’er was 
kind o’ crazed like, volk said, but whether ’twas 
true or no I relly couldn’ zay — volk does talk up ol’ 
rummage — an’ that’s what they telled about ’er ! ” 

“Well, she was a near neighbour of yours. You 
would have been the best judge as to her being 
crazy,” said Miss Scottie. 

“ Well, yes, ’er was a neighbour, us might zay ; 
but relly I never zeed the me-aid — ’er was out an’ 
’bout — us never ’ad no intermixtions. I couldn’ zay 
whether theer was truth in’t or no. I’m sure.” 

Bless you, your peasant proper is not going to 
divulge his heart beliefs to you on a first visit, nor 
yet on a second ! It would take many a long 
year before Mrs Mollard could feel sufficient con- 
fidence to throw her own explanation on the sub- 
ject of Cathie’s craziness to any one outside her 
own class. 

She wandered on to other subjects now, and Miss 
Scottie, nervous in her effort to bring the conversa- 
tion back to Cathie, and fearful of out -staying 
Madge’s patience, speedily withdrew. 

Madge took a common-sense view of the case. 

** She isn’t crazy,” she said. “ She’s only original.” 
Q 


242 *POSTLE FARM. 

One evening, about a fortnight later, Mrs Mollard 
was taking the bread out of the oven, when a voice 
said — 

Where’s Bessie ? ” 

When she turned she could see no one. She ran 
to the door and looked out. Not a soul was in 
sight. Then Mrs Mollard wrung her hands. 

“’Tis a sign!” she cried. “’Tis a sign I Sure as 
fate, the maid’ll be took for death ’fore the year’s 
out!” 

When her husband came in, she told him. 

“ Wull, wheer is ’er? ” 

“ I dunno ! ” 

Wull, why didn’t ’ee look?” 

“ I never thought on’t ! ” 

“’Ee only fancied ’ee yert it,” said Mr Mollard, 
comfortably ; “ that’s what ’twas ! ” 

But Mrs Mollard was quite positive, and, as a 
result, she was extremely vigilant. 

The next time she noticed Bessie going out, she 
said nothing, but she followed her. Keeping care- 
fully out of sight, she saw a man presently coming 
across the field, and as he drew nearer she recognised 
Miah. 

They stopped close together in the pathway, and 
then they went forward, with Miah’s arm round 
Bessie’s waist. Then the mother was furious. She 
raised her voice angrily and called Bessie back ; and 
that night there was a stormy scene in the usually 
peaceful kitchen at Stibb Farm. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 243 

Mrs Mollard, as she sat sadly discussing the 
subject with her husband, kept repeating— 

“ Well, I know one thing, Cathie 'ath bewitched 
’er ! I know my poor maid wouldn’ never tak’ up 
wi’ a or slouchin ’ulk o’ a great feller like thiccy 
Miah be, wi’out ’er was bewitched. It’s all along o’ 
that wicked me-aid ! ’Er don’ come to ’arm ’erself, 
’er be that cute ! ’Er’s maisterful all the while some 
poor other body shall come to devilment ! I’m sure 
I wish ’twadn’t wicked for weesh ’er out o’ world ! 
An’ I don’ b’lieve ’tis, nether ; an’ I do a- weesh ’er 
out o’t, an’ ol’ Nick joy o’ ’er, I do ! I do ! My poor 
little innercent me-aid, what ’arm ’er might a* come 
to wi’ thiccy feller to ’usband ! If it ’adn’t a-been I 
was kind o’ wracksled in my min’ I shouldn’ never 
a’ discovered it, an’ ’e might a’ took an’ marr’ed ’er 
whether us willed or no. Oh, that Cathie ! I know 
’tis all along o’ ’er, for I meeted ’er eye o’ Zaturdey ! 

Thus do we misinterpret our best blessings, and 
call them curses ! 

Mr Mollard sighed heavily, and they went upstairs 
slowly to bed, the wife carrying the baby, and the 
man in his stockinged feet so as not to wake the 
sleeping children. 


CHAPTER L. 


“ I MUS* be dressed proper,” said Cathie that 
same evening, when Miss Scottie and Madge re- 
turned. “’Ow do ’ee get *ee things for fit. These 
*ere now,” touching Madge’s well-fitting coat, “ ’an’t 
got so much as a creasy in ’un ! You show me 
some’at what I can buy an’ clothey myself in ! ” 

" I am so glad you want to be tidy ! ” said Miss 
Scottie, almost with tears in her eyes. “ If you 
live with Miss Montague, you must try and always 
look nice.” 

“ Zo I will ! ” said Cathie, heartily. 

The next day Cathie went into Upcott for the 
purpose of stocking herself with clothes. She went 
to the dressmaker first to be tried on. 

“ You mus’ mak’ ’un for fit,” she said. 

“We can easy do that. Miss Tythycott, with a 
figure like yours,” replied the dressmaker, putting 
her head on one side, as she fixed in a pin. 

It was the first time in her life Cathie had ever 
been called Miss Tythycott, 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 245 

“ Miss Tythycott I ” she repeated, with a little 
laugh. “Lor', what a name it be I I mos’ forgot 
I’d a-got ’un ! ” 

“ I understand you’re quite an heiress ? ” said the 
dressmaker amiably. 

“ I’ve ’nough for pay for ’ee,” said Cathie, nodding 
at the cloth dress. “ I dunno as ’ow what’s over an’ 
above is a matter what concarns ’ee.” 

“Certainly not!” said the dressmaker, a little 
piqued. 

When Cathie had been carefully fitted, she went 
to the bootmaker’s. 

“ ’Ere’s as nice a pair o’ bootses as you’d zee from 
now to Michaelmas!” said Mr Pedlar, producing a 
pair of thick farm ones, and tapping the soles with 
pride. 

“My dear zoul!” cried Cathie, turning away in 
disgust. “ Tak’ ’em away ! Give’s a pair o’ gloss 
kid shoesies ! ” 

The bootmaker stared a moment. 

“The glace-kid a’n’t got no wear in ’em, ’ee 
know,” he said. “ Betterment volk wears ’em 
mos’ly ; but,” with a pitying smile, “ bless yer 
’eart, they’m foolish, ’ee know — they’m foolish. 
Money to they b’ain’t no hobstacle! They’m got 
it for spend, an’ they spends it — that’s all the good 
’tis to mun — for spend. ’Tain’t for use, ’tain’t for 
sarvice, ’tis for spend. An’ what’s us do? Us 
supplies ’em with glacies an’ sichlike unendur- 
ables, an’ they wears mun an’ buys more. But 


246 


'POSTLE FARM. 


for use now — for reycommend for friends — give me 
a good strong calvy-leather, wi* iron bands to 'eel, 
an' a cap to toe o’ mun, an' there you be proper 
fixed up!” 

“Go 'long, my dear!” said the bootmaker's wife, 
who had now come into the shop, attracted by 
curiosity. “’Tain’t that kind o’ thing the young 
leddy wants at all ! Fetch out them smoothy- 
leathered, wi’ the siller buckles to mun ; theym's 
the soort Miss Tythycott wants. 'Tis Miss Tythy- 
cott, b’ain't it.^ Ees; I thought — I thought 'twas. 
You know. Da, over to 'Postle’s ^ You’ve a-come 
in for quite a middlin’ lot o’ money, I un’erstan’ ? 
Gen’elmen don’ un’erstan’ as ’ow, when a leddy’s 
got money, ’er likes for spend it. Fetch out they 
shoesies with the siller buckles, Da. There, now ! ” 
she cried, holding them out to view at arm’s 
length, “ Only look to mun ! Now, relly, they be 
so delicate like, so gentryfied as might say, b’ain’ 
’em now ? Tak’ away the farm clouts now. Da. 
Miss Tythycott don’t want none such!” 

By the time Cathie had made the round of the 
Upcott trades - people she was well and neatly 
dressed, and where her own taste failed Miss 
Scottie and Madge helped. All her being surged 
towards the thought of making herself a suitable 
wife for Temple, and it was astonishing how 
naturally she bore herself in her new clothes, and 
how quick she was to catch the ways and manners 
of Miss Scottie and Madge. Unlike many an- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 247 

Other rustic beauty, she was not spoilt by con- 
ventional clothes, and Madge said ruefully — 

“ The end of it all will be — I shall be taken for 
her, and she will be taken for me.” 

Strangers, when they met her, turned to look ; 
and one young man — a bicyclist of course — was 
audacious enough to pretend he had lost his way, 
and stopping, raised his cap, asking — 

‘‘ I beg your pardon, is this the Upcott road ? ” 
And when she answered in that wonderful soft- 
tongued rolling Devonshire of hers, he almost 
turned pale with astonishment as he hurried off 
in the wrong direction to the one she had in- 
dicated, so taken aback was he. 

At last Tostle Farm was ready to receive them, 
and they migrated thither, Miss Scottie, Madge, 
and Catherine. 


CHAPTER LI. 


“This waiting for dead men’s shoes is a melan- 
choly kind of business,” said Temple to himself. 
“The old fellow had no business to make me 
sell out of the army. What a good-for-nothing 
existence mine is, with never a will of my own — 
never sure that my plans won’t clash with his. 
And ever since that affair with Cathie I feel as 
miserable as a bandicoot — whatever that is, — I’m 
damned if I know ! Years perhaps of waiting, 
during which time I can do nothing without ex- 
citing suspicion, even if I had the necessary funds, 
which I haven’t. There she is one side of the 
water, and there I am the other — that’s the nearest 
we ever are: more often it’s two hundred miles 
apart. What’s going to be the end of it all, that’s 
what puzzles me. God knows, I love her! And 
yet — the future.^” 

He paced up and down the club-room. 

Wouldn’t it be better after all to break it off 
with her.? and yet he couldn’t. 

He flung himself into a chair and closed his 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 249 

eyes, and the old farm stood before him. How- 
well he knew it under every aspect. When the 
dark clouds scudded overhead, and the rain beat 
against its grey walls ; when the sunlight flooded 
all the landscape, and left it frowning still ; when 
the leaves on the elm trees turned yellow, and 
the sea-gulls flew up from the river white as snow 
against the black horizon ; when the great barn 
doors gaped open, and the golden carts of corn 
were swallowed into the darkness, and the rich 
grain was garnered. But, best of all, he knew it 
when the sun was setting, and the outline of the 
Upcott hills crept slowly upward on the other 
side like an all-embracing thought that takes 
possession of the mind. He knew exactly how 
the sunlight looked when it caught the trunks of 
the twelve elm trees, till they shone like silver, 
leaving all the upper limbs in mystic darkness ; 
and how the long length of the chimney grew 
across the roof, and all the farther side was lost in 
gathering gloom, as if Mother Nature had breathed 
on half the mirror and left a cloudland on it. 
Yes ; he knew it every inch, and he loved it every 
inch, and the beautiful girl within it. Only he 
wanted her as a kind of dreamland, an idyll in 
his life, a beautiful summerland that should never 
stale with custom, nor grow weary under a noon- 
day sun ; a summerland that should be visited 
only when his heart was in tune, and should 
never have the fierce light of criticism thrown 


250 


'POSTLE FARM. 


upon it by an influx of sordid people of the 
world who could never understand, and who, his 
inmost soul told him, would influence him in spite 
of himself. He wanted to lead two lives — an 
Arcadian life and a conventional life ; and he 
could not see how the two could be combined. 
And so he fretted out his existence until his next 
recall to Upcott. 

There had been a good deal of fretting in 
Cathie’s life too, since she had seen him last. She 
had thought to live at Tostle’s Farm would be 
the dream of her life. But somehow now it was 
different. She missed the old man who had never 
spoken a harsh word to her. He was gone from 
the ingle-nook, and her heart was heavy for him. 
A certain reverent tolerance had always marked 
his attitude towards her, and though she had 
heeded it little while she had it, it left a gaping 
wound now it was gone. Her effort to check the 
roughness of her speech, and to mind her manners, 
was a constant drag on her impulsive spirit, and 
the loss of her freedom at times almost maddened 
her. She had her duties to perform, and she was 
expected to perform them at stated times, at 
regular intervals. There was no running out on 
the grassy upland when the spirit moved her; no 
creeping softly to her “best parlour” and taking 
out her violin to charm away the loneliness, or 
to satisfy her yearning for all that was beautiful, 
elevated, and refined. The “best parlour” was 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 2$ I 

not hers to use now, and she shrank from playing 
before strangers, because the violin was her heart’s 
music, it was part of herself, and she was too proud 
to crave sympathy. 

One day when she had been told off to do the 
household tasks she hated and despised, she sud- 
denly stamped her foot, and, flinging down her 
dust-pan and brush at Miss Scottie’s terrified feet, 
she exclaimed — 

“ I b’ain’t a - gwin for do it, then ! I don’t 
want yer oV wages ! What’s wages to me ? I 
can get ’nough, an’ more’n ’nough, wi’out workin’ 
for’t. I telled ’ee from the first ’twas a scholard 
I wanted for be ! A-workin’ an’ a-sweatin’ mornin’, 
noon, an’ night, — I tell ’ee I’m clean zick on’t, an’ 
I’ll never so much as wring another floor-cloth! 
I’m gwin for be a scholard, not a mucky me-aid 
in a towzer apern I ” 

She swung out of the house, leaving poor Miss 
Scottie scandalised. 

Angry bitter tears were in Cathie’s eyes as she 
hurried along the hillside, longing for the old days 
when she was master of herself in every way : for, 
alas! she was no longer master of her heart — it 
was crying out all the while for Temple ; and the 
loss of her freedom, even in this particular, chafed 
her. 

So fast was she walking, and so bitter were her 
thoughts, that she never perceived Temple until she 
was almost face to face with him. 


252 


'POSTLE FARM. 


He held out his arms and took her to his heart. 
It was the moment of her weakness. She cared 
nothing at that moment for the future ; she wanted 
only something to stanch the wounds in her heart 
for the present. At that moment Cathie’s future 
was in Temple’s hand. She was tired out and 
wearied in spirit ; hope deferred (for his coming had 
been long) had made her heart sick. She could not 
face the thought of life without him ; she was alone, 
and in all the wide world there was none but he to 
love her. 

In a few broken words she told him of the death 
of her grandfather and her altered circumstances. A 
tide of colour flushed into his face and left him pale. 

“There is nothing for it now, dear, but to give 
yourself to ‘me,” he said unsteadily. “You know 
that I love you, and will care for you all my life.” 

She was too tired to dispute. What did it matter? 
As well lose his love in that way as in any other. 

“ I’ve a-tried to mak’ a scholard for ’ee,” she said 
brokenly, “ but life be all strivin’, an’ strugglin’, an’ 
ugliness.” 

“ We must go away where we are not known,” he 
said. “ Life will be beautiful to us both yet. Listen ; 
put together such things as you want, and dress 
yourself so as not to attract notice, and I will meet 
you here below, in the Salt Marsh, at — let me see — 
it’s two hours yet to flood-tide — at ten o’clock then 
—not a moment later. Will you be there ? ” 

Cathie bowed her head wearily. She felt no 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 253 

satisfaction in the prospect ; but the night vigils 
with her dying grandfather, and her disappointment 
at the same old tasks to be got through at Tostle 
Farm, Temple’s long silence and his absence, had 
told upon her health and spirits. 

She watched Temple disappearing down the hill, 
saw him unmoor his boat and land on the other side. 
Then she went back to the farm. She avoided the 
inmates, and slipped in the back way to her room. 

Poor Miss Scottie, with a very burnt face, was 
trying to fry chops for tea, in the absence of her 
wilful Abigail. 

“ It’s much more fun without Cathie, really,” sai 
Madge. ‘‘ I wish she’d go. She always lords it 
over us, as if the place still belonged to her. Per- 
haps she will go, and then it will be ripping fun, 
Cocksey ; we shall do everything for ourselves ! ” 

“If I’d only learnt cooking in my youth !” groaned 
Cocksey. “These chops seem quite black outside 
and quite red in ! ” 

“ Ugh ! I hate underdone meat ! After all, I wish 
Cathie would come in. It’s too bad to leave us quite 
in the lurch like this ! ” 

Cathie was upstairs putting her few things to- 
gether. The tears welled into her eyes as she 
stowed away Grandfer’s fiddle in the bottom of the 
oak chest. She wondered when she would see it 
again. 

“ I loved un,” she sobbed ; “ he was the friend o' 
my ’eart an’ Grandfer’s too ! ” 


254 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Presently she crept noiselessly downstairs. It was 
still too early to meet Temple, but she feared Miss 
Scottie might come up to find her. 

She stole out softly and closed the farm gate 
behind her noiselessly. The sheep-dog bounded to 
her side but she motioned him back, and with droop- 
ing tail and sad eyes he watched the girl pass out 
of sight. 

The moon was full, but being low in the sky it 
gave comparatively little light. There was no de- 
tail in the landscape. Only the spiked branches of 
the firs in the little wood were silhouetted against 
the sky : beneath them, all was impenetrable gloom. 

She turned for one last look at the grey walls so 
cold and implacable to the stranger’s eye ; but to 
the girl they were but the stern workaday front, 
and deep within them the heart pulsated and 
throbbed. An overwhelming sense of coming dis- 
aster, a stern insistance that from this moment the 
past must be for ever dead to her, fell upon her like 
a suffocating pall. She threw herself on the ground 
in a passion of tears. The little window in the 
kitchen threw out a cheery ray of light, but not for 
her — not for her. Something seemed to tell her 
that light of peace and contentment would never 
more be hers. The dark curtain of fate was being- 
slowly drawn across it. 

Dashing the tears from her eyes, she sprang to 
her feet and began to descend the hill. How often 
as a child had she pressed the short grey grass with 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 255 

dancing feet. Now her steps were heavy and her 
heart was lead. 

It was far too early to expect Temple. She sat 
down on the bank and watched. The tide was on 
the turn. It rushed out with a swift relentless force. 
Scarcely conscious of thought, she remained sitting 
and waiting. 

She could tell by the glitter of the moon now 
that the tide was almost out. Now and then a sea- 
gull screeched. Then she began to listen atten- 
tively, and presently she could catch the faint silver 
dip of oars. A moment later the boat shot full into 
the pathway of the moon. And an exaltation filled 
her spirit. The sense that Temple was at hand, 
and with him deliverance, stirred the pulses of 
her being. 

He sprang on to the bank just as Catherine 
reached it. 

“ My darling ! ” he said, holding her to his breast. 
“ I have been tormented with doubts. I thought 
what shall I do if she is not there?” 

“I telled ’ee Td come,” she said softly. 

He lifted her little box into the boat, and then 
stood and stretched out his hand to her. 

“ Can you step from there ? ” 

The moon was full on her beautiful face and 
glittered in her eyes. She stretched out a hand to 
him. At the same moment she stepped back with 
a low cry. 

What is it ? ” cried Temple. 


256 


’POSTLE FARM. 


She stood and pointed. 

“The shinin’ lady!” she gasped, — “the shinin’ 
lady ! Theer’s danger in the boat ! ” 

“You are over- wrought,” he said, leaping on to 
the bank again. “You are excited, my own! 
There is nothing there ! ” 

“Yes, yes!” she cried can’t ’ee see?” and she 
broke from him and went backwards a step. “ Oh ! 
when I see her beckon, I follow tho’ it be blood an’ 
vire ; but when I see ’er wi’ ’er ’and upraised,” and 
she raised her own, standing straight and still in the 
moonlight as she did so, “ I tell ’ee,” she breathed, 
“ nor God nor Davil would bring me on ! ” 


CHAPTER LIT 


Then Temple swore beneath his breath. His hand 
shook as he grasped hers. 

“ Cathie, don’t be so foolish,” he urged ; “ there is 
nothing there. Indeed, my darling, if there were 
I could see it.” 

He began to pull her towards the boat. 

“Tak’ care, you’ll drow ’er in’s watter!” she 
called. 

In spite of himself he shivered. Was she really 
crazed ? 

“ Darling,” he cried, going back to her, " you once 
said you trusted me. Trust me now — you are safe 
— I love you — there is nothing there ! ” 

But she shook her head, holding firmly back. 

“ Dearest, for my sake, put this foolish fancy from 
you ! Another minute and it will be too late ! See, 
the boat is half out of the water already. We 
shall be caught on a sandbank, and all Upcott 
will see us ! ” 

“ All Upcott won’t, for I b’ain’t a-gwin.” 

“You can’t leave me in the lurch like this !” cried 
R 


258 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Temple. “ You can’t be turned by a foolish fancy. 
Do you love me so little?” he cried, catching her 
passionately in his arms. Cathie, we haven’t tried 
for this — it isn’t our fault! It is fate that has 
decreed it ! I swear before God no thought of any 
thing was on my mind when I met you on the hill ; 
it was your misery — your loneliness. Darling, I 
love you I I want to take care of you all my life ! ” 

She looked in his face and tried to speak, 
but could not. The agony of passionate love 
and despair stamped on the face he loved swept 
Temple off his feet like a mighty rush of water. 
Everything was forgotten in that mad moment, 
as he caught her to his breast. 

“ I don’t care,” he said fiercely, and speaking 
in a quick undertone — “I don’t care. Nothing 
matters but you and love. Let everything else 
go. What is anything to me ? Love such as 
ours is God-given. Everything must give way 
before it. Catherine — my own — my love — come ! ” 

She was beginning to tremble. The old land- 
marks were being washed away. It seemed as 
if their love filled all the earth and sanctified 
every action. In moments of strong passion 
reason becomes obliterated. Nothing remains to 
guide us but the wild effort to recall what once, 
in our calmer moments, reason taught us was the 
right course of action. Failing that, we are lost. 

Cathie paused, and in that pause all heaven 
bent to help her. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 259 

She struggled back from him. 

“I can’t!” she gasped. “Don’t ask it of me — 
for love o’ me, don’t ! ” 

“ Is that your answer? ” His tone frightened her. 

“It be, it be I ” she said, with tearless sobs. 

“Your nature is incapable of love,” he cried 
fiercely. “I always felt you were somehow out- 
side of me, and that I could never master you ; 
and this is the upshot of it.” 

He flung her from him. 

“I would to God I had never met you!” he 
said, with an intensity of bitterness. “ It was an 
evil day for me when I climbed the hill to teach 
you how to be a scholar — a damnable day when 
I gave my heart into your keeping. You were a 
witch from the first, and the country-people knew 
it. You dragged out my heart in spite of myself, 
and now when I wait for yours in exchange you 
tempt me to the last pitch of endurance and then 
fling me from you. It was a cursed day when 
I met you — a cursed day when your lips first 
touched mine. You have me in your power. 
Were heaven open to me without you I would 
not enter, and into the very nethermost hell 
would I go for one hour of you, body and soul.” 

He spoke with an intensity of intoxicated pas- 
sion. Her frustration of his plans had maddened 
him. He was in a mood so desperate that life 
held nothing for him at the moment but his own 
ungratified passion. 


26 o 


*POSTLE FARM. 


She threw her tender arms about him. 

I love ’ee,” she sobbed ; “ but, O God in 
heaven, you ask too much!” 

“ What are your kisses to me ? ” he said. 
“ Empty promises that have no meaning.” 

He hurled her from him, and she fell : on the 
still air a cry of agony echoed faintly through 
the hills. 

Temple shoved the boat off unheeding, and at 
the same instant a strong voice called — 

“Is any one hurt? Answer!” 

But the wild splash of oars, as Temple in fury 
rowed himself from the spot that had tortured 
him, was the only answer. 

A dark figure passed close to Catherine, but 
the bush against which she had fallen hid her 
from his sight. He groped once within a foot 
of her, and then, coming back, his fingers actually 
played upon her loosened hair and took it for 
the seaweed and the grass. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


“Well, I wish Cathie would come,” said Madge, 
“or you would come to bed, Cocksey. I don’t 
mind which ; but I do wish ” — with a very big 
yawn — “one or the other would happen. There 
she is!” as the sheep-dog’s bark sounded loudly 
through the yard. 

“Shep wouldn’t bark at her,” said Miss Scottie. 
“My dear, this is a very lonely farm for two 
females. Somehow Cathie was so muscular and 
had a power with her, I never felt nervous when 
she was here.” 

A man’s voice bade the dog lie down. 

“My!” said Madge, “ain’t this romantic?” 

The next moment a knock at the door echoed 
along the oak beams of the kitchen where the 
two were sitting. 

“I’ll open the door,” said Madge. 

“No; I’ll open it,” said Cocksey, pushing her 
back. 

“Well, let’s both open it.” 

So they went together. 


262 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“Anybody there?” called Cocksey’s high treble. 

“Robert!” came the answer in a deep bass. 

At which both the women screamed and flung 
open wide the door. 

A tall man stood outside, and Madge dragged 
him in, and there was much excitement ; while 
the sheep-dog sniffed suspiciously at the stranger’s 
heels. 

“ Why ever didn’t you let us know ? ” cried 
Madge at last. “ Our Abigail’s gone off in a 
huff, and we neither of us can cook chops — only 
potatoes.” 

Robert said he didn’t mind that in the least. 
He had come to ruralise with his sister for the 
space of three months, and was quite prepared 
to take rural luck. 

“When you wrote from Tostle Farm it was too 
much for me. This is the old place I sketched 
in for a background to my Academy picture last 
year.” 

“ Good gracious ! ” cried Madge, “ and Cathie 
was the girl ! I always said I had seen her some- 
where. How awfully odd ! ” 

“Can you put me up for three months?” 

“ My dear, for our sakes stay till the remainder 
of the lease. We’re rather nervous here.” 

“No occasion for that. I don’t suppose you 
brought the family plate?” 

Scottie shook her head. “ I don’t know who 
would clean it,” she said in her matter-of-fact way. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 263 

“We didn’t mind when Cathie was here,” said 
Madge. 

“Who’s Cathie?” 

“Oh! just a girl who cooked for us.” 

“My dear, now do, pray, excuse me,” said 
Cocksey, “but that’s just what she wasn’t.” 

“Well, I mean she was supposed to,” corrected 
Madge. 

“ She’s a wonderful girl,” cried Cocksey. “ She 
does so love to learn, and she’s so beautiful and 


Madge put her hand before Cocksey’s mouth. 

“ I’m sick of Cathie. I’m angry with her. 
Which of us two is going to peel the potatoes?” 

“ I, of course, my dear,” said Cocksey, bustling off. 
“Oh, dear!” she said, rustling back presently; “I 
do wish that dear child was back.” 

“What dear child?” asked Robert. 

“ Cathie.” 

“Your Abigail?” 

“Your model.” 

“ My model ! Where did she go ? ” 

“ No one knows.” 

“Have you no idea?” 

“None,” said Madge. “She went off in a regu- 
lar tantrum.” 

Then Robert remembered the cry by the river, 
“She wouldn’t try to drown herself, I suppose?” 
Miss Scottie screamed, and put her hands to 
her ears. 


264 


*POSTLE FARM. 


" Oh, no ; she’s all right,” said Madge ; and 
they sat down comfortably to supper. 

When they were all ready for bed Montague 
said — 

“Shan’t I go and call or look or do something 
to find this Abigail?” 

Miss Scottie shook her head. “We must leave the 
door on the latch, and a light in the window.” 

“ She is a curious, uncanny kind of a creature,” 
said Madge. 

So they all went to bed. 

And with the dawn the tide came creeping up. 
Nearer and nearer it flowed, higher and higher. 
It reached the spot where Temple had moored his 
boat, and it washed out the marks of his passionate 
footsteps. Then it surged higher and touched the 
foot of the girl still lying under the thorn tree. 

Montague tossed on his bed and could not sleep. 
He dropped into a doze at last, but woke at the 
sound of a woman’s cry. He started up in bed and 
knew he had been dreaming. But sleep was over 
for him. Through the square window-pane the 
dawn was faintly glimmering, like a mountain tarn 
silvered with a white reflection. He threw on his 
clothes and went out and groped his way down- 
stairs, His sister’s cats ran mewing to him under 
the impression it was now breakfast-time. The dead 
ashes were in the cold grate ; outside a cock crowed 
drowsily. He opened the kitchen door and looked 
out on the grey yard. A calf blaired, and the ever- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 265 

hungry pig grunted. The rooks were not moving 
yet in the budding branches of the elms. The sheep- 
dog, having accepted Montague into the bosom of 
the family, ran up to him, lazily stretching and 
yawning, and licked his hand. As Montague passed 
under the elm-trees, along the beaten, knotted path- 
way, an old rook stirred drowsily and called sleepily 
“ Caw ! ” and from the neighbouring branches came 
the answers, “Caw! caw! caw!” till the air was 
clamorous with their calling and the beating of their 
dusky wings. 

Montague strode down to the river. Over the hill 
the mist hung, wreathing into shapes and forms 
quaint and fantastic. But he did not pause just 
then to observe the effects of nature. He hurried 
down the hill, till he reached, as far as he could 
judge, somewhere about the place from whence he 
had heard the woman cry. 

There was a thorn-bush a little way ahead of him. 
He could see something white lying out on a tuft of 
grass. Then he reached it at a stride. It was a 
woman’s hand, and already the tide was surging over 
her lower limbs. He lifted her quickly into a place 
of safety, and, as he bent his face close to hers in the 
half light, he recognised the features he had painted 
in the autumn of the year before — the girl whose 
personality he had obstinately refused to allow. He 
had looked upon her as he might have a beautiful 
piece of sculpturing. She was no woman to him ; 
and though the imprisoned soul had sometimes 


266 


’POSTLE FARM. 


gazed at him with a passion of intensity for one brief 
heart-beat, he would have none of it. She was his 
model, but he respected her. 

He was a strong, muscular man, but he looked 
with some misgiving at the hill before him. Cath- 
erine was no sylph ; she was a full-grown, fully 
developed woman, and he doubted if he could mount 
the hill with her in his arms. 

By a lucky chance his brandy flask was in his 
pocket, put there in case he should lose his way on 
a rather longer stage than even a strong bicyclist 
usually faces. He tried to force a little between her 
closed teeth. He was thankful to find her body dry, 
save for the dew. At any rate, she was not drowned. 

The beautiful, luminous eyes opened wearily, and 
stared up at him in indifferent curiosity. 

“ Do you think, with my help, you could walk ? ” 
said Montague. 

Her eyes closed heavily. 

So he took off his coat and bent over her. 

“ If you could manage to clasp your hands round 
my neck — do you think you could? — I could get 
you home. You will be ill if you stay here longer.” 

He got her into his arms, and himself upon his 
feet, somehow, and began to breast the hill. All the 
time his teeth were tightly clenched. He loathed 
himself because, in spite of himself, the sense of her 
nearness was dear to him. His heart, during the 
weeks he had painted her, had been like a slumbering 
volcano. Without warning it had burst into a tur- 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 26/ 

moil. He despised himself because he was attracted 
by a beautiful body, and asked no questions of the 
slumbering soul within. It was only what thousands 
of his fellow-creatures did, but from himself he felt 
he had expected something different. 

When at length he reached the farm he carried 
her upstairs and laid her on his own bed, because it 
was the handiest thing to do. 

Then he woke Miss Scottie and rode away for the 
doctor. 

Cathie was desperately ill. For weeks she lay on 
the borderland. Only her wonderful constitution 
pulled her through. 

A severe shock to the nervous system,” was the 
cause, the doctor said ; and this had been followed 
by rheumatic fever. But what caused the nervous 
shock no one knew — whether she had tried to drown 
herself and failed ; whether she had merely fainted 
underneath the spreading thorn and been mercifully 
rescued from drowning by Montague, nobody knew. 
Nobody could guess at all, excepting one man, and 
he guessed. He knew. 

Details, of course, he did not know ; but as the 
girl grew stronger, and was able to lie on the sofa 
downstairs, and then to creep into the yard for the 
warm spring sunshine, he watched her furtively. At 
first he had intended leaving the farm next day ; but 
he told himself he would not be a coward — he would 
live the thing down. If it was a thing to be 
strangled, he would strangle it ; if it was a thing to 


26 S 


'POSTLE FARM. 


foster, — but thought took him no further — beyond 
was delirium. 

So he stayed and he watched Cathie furtively — 
so furtively that no one suspected it. And he found 
out — by instinct, perhaps, for he very rarely saw her 
close ; but at any rate he became possessed of 
Cathie’s secret — in part. She loved. Beyond that 
a nightmare of doubt tormented him. 

One day he saw her from the window of the 
room he called his studio pass through the farm- 
gate and under the elms. Here she strolled for a 
while with head bent and downcast eyes — a poem. 
After a while she sat down on the twisted root 
of the farthest elm, and leant her chin upon her 
hand and sighed. He knew she sighed ; he could 
fancy that he saw her bosom heave, though in- 
deed, good as his sight was, he could not have. 
Anyway he saw her sigh in fancy, and it is a 
fact that she sighed in reality. 

And so he saw her many days. Always she 
passed the same way, and sat and sighed. And 
always her eyes were in the one direction, and 
that direction was Upcott Hall. And he began 
to build up his own story, bit by bit, and piece 
by piece. And no one suspected that he was 
doing anything but painting. 

The farm, indeed, was a charming residence now. 
It was crammed with old oak ; its draughty doors 
were sheltered with heavy curtains ; its old kitchen 
was converted into the most delightful of morning 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 269 

rooms; it was absolutely charming, — every one 
said so ; and the country waived Madge’s peculiari- 
ties once more, and called. Montague’s man-ser- 
vant presided with dignity in the back regions, 
and his wife served dinner with a French effect, 
in spite of the lack of appliances. 

Madge grumbled it was not a bit like she meant 
it to be, but in her heart of hearts she was very 
glad. A month of farm life had been ample. It 
was now more than a year since her brother had 
thrown in his manage with hers, and she welcomed 
him back warmly, and was thankful to escape so 
easily out of her last craze, and that, too, without 
giving herself away. 

“Do you know what that stupid Cathie wants 
to do.^” said Madge one afternoon. 

To tell the honest truth, Madge was not very 
fond of Cathie, but during her illness she had felt 
sorry for her. Their natures, however, were too 
widely different ever to admit of any real warmth 
of feeling between them in their present difference 
of station. Madge hated sick-rooms, but she had 
conquered her aversion, and had spent many 
hours reading aloud to Cathie. Tears of wounded 
pride had welled over Cathie’s eyes when she 
first listened to Madge. For the reading aloud 
brought back to her these happier hours, when she 
and Temple had sat on the grassy hillside, starred 
with daisies, and she had felt her power over him 
grow with the lengthening hours. But he had 


270 


'POSTLE FARM. 


not loved her sufficiently to make the one little 
sacrifice necessary — to face the world with her. 

‘^What?” asked Montague, but without taking 
his eyes from his canvas. 

“ I don't suppose you’re sufficiently interested in 
her to care to hear. I’m sure I’m not. She really 
annoys me. One would think she was a princess 
in disguise — or a genius.” 

Montague said nothing except — 

“ How do you like that ? Rather charming, isn’t 
it, with that quaint piece of cob-wall, and the row 
of beehives — then the arch beyond, and the pump. 
I never felt so grateful to you for anything in my 
life, Madge, as for settling here.” 

“Really.? Well, I am glad. Yes; it’s a lovely 
bit — but you want a figure.” 

“ Hm — I was afraid I did.” 

“Why not use Cathie?” 

“No; I don’t want her.” 

“How queer! Now I should have thought you 
would have been taking her in every possible 
position. However, if she’s going away, of course 
you can’t.” 

“Is she going away? Fm not sure I’ve got 
that perspective right. - It’s awkward, though it 
doesn’t look so.” 

There was several minutes’ silence while Mon- 
tague measured the different points of his canvas 

Madge dawdled back to the house, but Mon- 
tague painted till sunset. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 2/1 

Madge has told you, I suppose?” said Miss 
Scottie, when he came into the house. 

“Told me what?” 

“About Cathie.” 

“ What ; going, you mean ? Well, she’s no good 
here, is she ? I notice she always appears to have 
done that which she ought not, and to have left 
undone that which she, &c., &c.” 

“ She wants to go to a boarding-school.” 

“ A what ? ” 

“A boarding-school.” 

“H’m — to be an educated miss, I suppose?” 

“No; to be an educated lady.” 

“Is that what she says ? ” 

“Yes, that’s her idea. What shall I do?” 

“What can you do? You’re not her guardian. 
Besides, why shouldn’t she go?” 

But when Montague got upstairs he paced his 
narrow apartment with uneasy strides. She was 
going away ? Why was she going ? She was going 
to be educated. Why ? They would lose sight of 
her. What would her end be? 

He shuddered. 

“ When is Cathie going ? ” he asked at dinner. 

“She says she doesn’t quite know — she can’t 
make up her mind exactly.” 

And Montague said to himself, “ She cannot 
go till she has seen some one.” And he watched 
her. 

Then she suddenly announced — 


^POSTLE FARM. 


272 

I’m a-gwin in to Upcott for larn o* the school- 
missus ! ” 

This news was in due time passed on to Montague. 

“She had better live out here with us,” he said, 
“and walk in every day. I don’t like the idea of 
her going out friendless into the world.” 

“ Even Robert spoils her,” thought Madge. 

Aloud she said — 

“There is no school there for her except the 
Church school, and Mrs Eliot refused her long ago 
— that’s why w'e had to take compassion on her.” 

“ Why did Mrs Eliot refuse her ? ” 

“ She wasn’t quite so idiotically quixotic as Cock- 
sey — I suppose that’s why.” 

“Well, if she pays for her schooling I see nothing 
quixotic in teaching her.” 

“ No ; well, she’d have to live with Mrs Eliot. I 
can speak from experience, there’s enough quixot- 
ism in a week of that to last a lifetime. She was 
no use in the house at all — besides being a most 
awful bore. She used to come into our sitting- 
room and sit down with the greatest composure — 
she did really — and pick out tunes on my piano. 
Oh ! it was unbearable. I hated it I don’t believe 
in being quixotic^ — I shall never be it again.” 

When an opportunity came Montague addressed 
Miss Scottie on the subject. 

“ She could learn plenty at the Church school if 
she wants to,” said he. “ And you say she means 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 173 

to Spend what money she has on education, so really 
I don’t see that Mrs Eliot need object. You might 
call and see her about it.” 

*‘Oh, my dear, anything to please you and dear 
Madge, but not that I I called once before, and I 
felt I made a great mistake. Now, if you were to 
call.” 

Montague moved uneasily. 

“ I couldn’t very well ; you know what people are. 
It would get about at once that I was educating the 
girl for myself.” 

“ But what use would she be to you ? ” cried Miss 
Scottie. 

“ They would say, perhaps, I was educating her 
to be my wife.” 

Miss Scottie covered her face with her hands. 

Oh, what a wicked, wicked world ! ” she groaned. 

It would never do for me to take the least ap- 
parent interest in her. We’ve been too quixotic 
already. Now she could attend the Church school 
surely without exciting the least remark.” 

Miss Scottie fingered her fancy work uneasily. 
Then a bright thought struck her. 

“ Send her away from here to a boarding-school 
for trades-people !” she cried. “We could easily 
find such an one.” 

“ She won’t go away,” said Montague. 

“ Have you asked her, my dear ? ” 

“ No ; but I know she wouldn’t ; at least ” — check- 
ing himself — “ you had better ask her.” 

S 


274 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Miss Scottie did ask her. Cathie firmly refused. 
She came back and told Montague. 

“ You ask her too/’ she said. “ Perhaps she would 
if you asked her.” 

She would not do it for me more than for any 
one else,” said Montague. Did she give any reason 
for not going away ? ” he asked suddenly. 

“ No — none.” 

“You might call in and see the rector of Upcott ; 
he might arrange something,” suggested Montague. 

“ I might,” said Miss Scottie, doubtfully ; and this 
she finally ended by doing. 

The rector undertook to ask Mrs Eliot if she 
would be so good and kind as to let Cathie learn 
with the children. 

“ I’ve brought her here for you to see,” he finished. 
“ She’s just outside.” 

And that altered the complexion of things. The 
brilliant intelligent eyes hunting for knowledge, 
went straight to Mrs Eliot’s heart. And she under- 
took the task. 

“You’ll have to house her here a bit longer, 
Madge,” said Montague. “ We could not very well 
shove her off. You began to be quixotic, and now 
you’ll have to go on with it.” 

“As long as she don’t join our tea-parties,” said 
Madge. 

“I confess I see nothing forward in her,” said 
Montague. 

“No, she’s afraid of you, I suppose; but before 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 275 

you came she led me and Cocksey a dance, I can 
tell you ! ” 

So Cathie walked in to Upcott school every day. 
And very soon Mrs Eliot began to take a deep 
pleasure in her keen desire for knowledge, her sim- 
plicity, her delicate ways, her gentle feelings — for 
all these were Cathie’s when she reached an atmo- 
sphere where she was understood. 

And Mrs Eliot understood her. She was a woman 
of ready sympathy, and she did her utmost to push 
her eager scholar forward. 

For Cathie was still eager. Many waters cannot 
quench love. In the dim future, if she could fit her- 
self for the post. Temple would come back to her, 
she told herself She did not blame him, except for 
not believing sufficiently in her cleverness to feel 
that in time she could fit herself for the position 
which he occupied. Well ! she would prove to him 
she could. 

Meanwhile no boat rowed across the changing 
river. 

Temple had gone for a trip round the world. 

And after a while Cathie stayed altogether with 
Mrs Eliot, and Tostle Farm knew her no more. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


Cathie rapidly passed the Standards. Learning 
was no trouble to her. 

Her magnificent physique enabled her to study 
for long hours without fatigue, and her quick brain 
grasped subjects at a glance, which the less intelli- 
gent have often to struggle over for an indefinite 
period. 

She paid Mrs Eliot regularly the sum they had 
agreed upon — for Cathie had insisted her education 
should not be free, — she felt no anxiety about money. 
Lord Frobisher had told her to come for more 
when that was gone : besides, there were Grandfer’s 
savings. 

Mrs Eliot soon found her exceedingly useful. 
She helped her in the school, taking the younger 
classes at first, then gradually working her way up 
to the higher standards. Nothing escaped her, noth- 
ing was hard to her ; nothing, except — her Devon- 
shire! How it clung to her! How it seemed part 
and parcel of her tongue ! The moment she was 
interested or startled the old words slipped out. It 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 2// 

seemed as if her tongue could never shape itself to 
any other language. Yet she attacked it with in- 
domitable pluck. She was never disheartened. 

And the town began to talk about her, and the 
county grew interested. But Cathie worked on 
quietly at her books, and heeded them not. 

And something new came into the girl’s beautiful 
face, just as sunlight streams into a room — only the 
sunlight leaves it when the daylight fades ; but that 
which came into Cathie’s face came to stay. 

Every day she climbed the ridge behind ’Postle 
Farm, and looked down on the twelve stately elms, 
standing straight and true, like heroes in the battle ; 
but no pendant flew to beckon her in the breeze. 
Yet she never went home dissatisfied, — the buoyancy 
that had forsaken her for a while had returned to 
her. 

To Mrs Eliot she grew very dear — she had under- 
stood her from the first : why should not the girl 
choose her own station in life? So the months 
glided by. 

One day Mrs Eliot and Cathie received an invita- 
tion to take tea at Tostle Farm. Cathie did not 
wish to go : she shrank from the painful memories 
the old place would awaken. But Mrs Eliot per- 
suaded her, and they went. 

The invitation was entirely due to Lady Gamble, 
who was anxious to see the farm girl her niece was 
taking such an interest in. Not for the world would 
she have called at Mrs Eliot’s for this purpose. She 


2^8 


’POSTLE FARM. 


was very much annoyed at the whole proceeding, 
but her curiosity led her to investigate the matter — 
only her niece was not to know the meeting was 
prearranged. 

There was really nothing Lady Gamble so 
thoroughly enjoyed as bringing out a good-looking 
or a clever girl. To discover beauty and genius, 
irrespective of birth, and thrust her discovery into 
the gaping mouths of the county, was a situation 
she revelled in. But Cathie*s birth was a little too 
exceptional even for Lady Gamble. 

It was a beautiful afternoon when Lady Gamble’s 
carriage rolled into the old farm -yard. The cows 
lowed at her over the stone wall, for it was near 
their milking - time, and the footman descended 
and rapped with his knuckles on the door, and 
the immaculate man-servant, imported by Mon- 
tague, bowed her ladyship ceremoniously into the 
kitchen. 

“Well, I’m blowed, if ever!” said the coachman, 
as he turned the carriage round to find standing- 
room tn the barn. “These ’ere bloomin’ gentry 
choose odd kind o’ games.” 

“You, Lady Gamble!” cried Madge, who had 
been coached. “Mrs Eliot is here too.” 

“Why ever don’t you have the hedges cut, my 
dear.?” cried Lady Gamble. “Gregory says they 
scratch the carriage to pieces. I know they nearly 
tore my bonnet off my head ! You must have them 
cut.” 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 279 

*‘We can’t,” said Madge. It’s called Scratch 
Face Lane.” 

My dear Margaret,” said Lady Gamble, as soon 
as tea was over and Miss Scottie and Madge had 
taken Cathie to see the stock, “you often told me 
about her — and I wouldn’t believe half you said! 
But listen to me, you may swear black’s white, but 
that girl’s got good blood in her veins ! She never 
got that carnage, that manner, from a farm 1 Beauty 
of a certain type one sees in that class repeatedly. 
Heaven forbid I should disparage it — it would never 
do in these Communist days — but without intending 
any disrespect to that class at all, that girl’s type of 
beauty is never found save, and save only, where the 
blood has been crossed with the aristocracy of the 
land 1 Do you not agree with me, Mr Montague?” 

“Well, I confess I have had some suspicion of the 
sort in her case!” 

“You have? Of course you have! You’re a 
.sensible man. You know we don’t gather grapes 
of thorns nor figs of thistles ! ” 

“Oh, you are quite wrong!” cried Mrs Eliot. 
“ Of course since I took up this work of village 
teaching I have been thrown so much with her class, 
and I assure you I have over and over again met 
with a delicacy of feeling, an intuitive knowledge, 
that you often do not find equalled and rarely ex- 
celled in the class that is foolishly termed, above 
them ! ” 


2S0 


’POSTLE FARM. 


Of course you do ! ” said Lady Gamble. “ There 
is plenty of cross-blood in most villages ! ” 

“Ah, but there the parents are, simple honest 
people ! ” 

“Yes, yes, that is all very well,” said Lady Gam- 
ble ; but have you, in one of these intuitive cases 
you speak of — have you traced the descent back for 
generations through plebeian blood ? There you are, 
you see ! Allow me to state that good blood, and 
good blood only — I don’t care if it’s half a hundred 
generations back — but it’s the best blood only that 
turns out a girl like — who is it ? What’s her name ? 
Cathie — Cathie Vithycott — Pugsley — pshaw! Cathie 
Fiddlesticks ; she’s no more a Tythycott proper 
than I am I ” 

Lady Gamble lay back in her chair and tossed 
her head, first at one listener, then at the other. 

“Certainly,” said Mrs Eliot, “Cathie is simply a 
world of surprises. She learns so fast, she almost 
frightens me, and she seems to have been born 
with an absolute knowledge of the correct thing 
to do.” 

“Of course she was,” said Lady Gamble. “ Now, 
my dear Margaret, do for goodness sake make her 
drop that Devonshire. It’s awful, isn’t it ? ” appeal- 
ing to Montague. 

“Yes, she might pass for any one till she opens 
her mouth I ” said he, laughing. 

Mrs Eliot laughed too. 

“ Poor, dear girl, she does try so hard ! she said. 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 28 1 


“What ever made her take this education freak 
into her head?” 

“ Ah ! that I don’t know,” said Mrs Eliot. “When 
she begins, in that charming open way of hers, to 
talk, you think she is going to tell you everything, 
but when it’s over you find she really has told you 
very little.” 

“ Does she ever hint any mystery about her birth ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mrs Eliot ; “ there is none.” 

“Well, if you can make her talk plain English, 
you’ll do more than I ever expect to see. You’re a 
goose to undertake it.” 

As Mrs Eliot and Cathie walked home together, 
Cathie said — 

“ I like mixing with real gentry folk.” 

“ We don’t say gentry folk,” said Mrs Eliot, who 
had strict orders from Cathie to correct her in 
every particular. “We say, well-bred people.” 

“Dear heart! and it really matters? Well, it is 
interesting — and, yes, absurd!” 

These little differences of expression between the 
classes amused her immensely. 

Next day Lady Gamble called on her niece. 

“Now, what are you going to do about the girl?” 
she asked. 

“Let her stay with me, just as long as she is 
inclined to.” 

“You can’t possibly. The girl would be in a 
false position.” 


282 


*POSTLE FARM. 


“ I don’t see that ! ” 

“You never see anything that’s plain and practical, 
that’s one thing! Things that everbody else sees, 
you can’t. The girl ought to go away somewhere 
and be properly educated, and then married to one 
of the more respectable artisan class — or a clerk.” 

Her niece smiled at her. 

“You know you don’t think that, aunt!” she 
said. 

“ Well, I think she should be educated away from 
here, any way — and then some one who is an autho- 
rity in these matters ” 

“Yourself, for instance!” interrupted Mrs Eliot. 

“ Should run down,” continued Lady Gamble, 
ignoring her, “and see how she’s shaping, and 
order her course accordingly.” 

Mrs Eliot sighed. 

“ I’ve no doubt you’re right,” she said ; “ but I’ve 
grown fond of her. I don’t like the idea of losing 
her. There is no hurry for the present, any way. 
I’ll educate her till she knows all I know — that’s 
economical, and at the same time pleasant for me.” 

“ I thought you said she paid you ? ” 

“ So she does, but I leave you to imagine whether 
it’s a large sum.” 

“Well, it’s economical; but still she oughtn’t to 
stay with you. I don’t believe at all in thrusting 
people out of the class to which they belong. Her 
head will be turned.” 

“No one’s head is turned when they come into 


LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 283 

the sphere they were created for! It’s only when 
they are forced into a position by a misguided leader 
of society.” 

“That’s why I want her to go away. Whether 
her head’s turned or not then won’t matter to us,” 
said Lady Gamble. “We can stop short before 
the mischief’s done, but if you keep her here, and 
get that absurd heart of yours entangled — well, 
there’ll be trouble all round, that’ll be the end 
of it.” 

“ If she stays with me, I can watch her every day, 
and if I see her getting beyond herself, remove 
my sympathy and help — and recommend her going 
into domestic service.” She burst out laughing. 
“You know, aunt,” she finished, “it’s ridiculous — 
you’ll never tie her down to the common-place. 
She’s bound to make a leader of something. Look 
at her violin-playing alone 1 No, no, she has a future, 
and I’m not going to lose my hold of her!” 

“ Violin’s good, is it ? ” 

“Well, I think it beautiful — but then I’m no 
judge.” 

“ Then I’m no nearer the truth than I was.” 

“Well, you can take my opinion for what it’s 
worth.” 

“On your own estimate? that’s worth nothing, 
you say; and, candidly, Margaret, I don’t know 
whether you’re an authority on music or not — I 
only remember the Colonel wasn’t. The fact is, 
you’re an unsatisfactory person to have the manage- 


284 


'POSTLE FARM. 


ment of this girl, and I wish with all my heart you'd 
hand her over to one of her own class ! ” 

“My dear aunt, they wouldn't understand her a 
bit ! She’s very queer sometimes. She’s painfully 
imaginative. I’m always in terror she’ll influence 
Laury ! ” 

“ Influence him ? How ! ” 

“ Why, make him tell fibs.” 

“ Does she tell fibs ? ” 

“ Not consciously ; but she imagines things, you 
know — and children pick things up so easily.” 

“ I always supposed imagination a natural gift — 
bestowed by the good fairies at one’s birth. I 
didn’t know it could be picked up like a germ. I 
think I shall try and pick it up.” 

“ Well, I mean, it’s imagination in Cathie ; but 
in Laury it would be fibs, because he wouldn’t 
see the things really, — he’d only say he did be- 
cause Cathie did ! ” 

“ Let me see : imagination in Cathie — fibs in 
Laury — and, if I caught it, a still further deteriora- 
tion, I suppose ! Dear me ! It’s like influenza 
in the head of the house, and head colds in the 
women, and nothing more than ill-temper in the 
domestics. You really are ridiculous, Margaret. 
You’ve begun already to hedge that girl in with 
a kind of divinity, to the exclusion even of your 
own offspring. I see you’ll make a failure of the 
whole thing!” 

Mrs Eliot smiled quietly. 


BOOK IV. 


THE AWAKENING 





A'l » 


[k.tVw 


'it' 


, 7 


( 


" r', , . /.•)«] 

'* i ^i'\‘ -M-', .'?!5 
,?/•'» *. ^ 

, ‘i 

■ L'^ i’i 

■>(f^0iail 


^ t 


V ». 


Vi 


V- I 


77;Vr«7.^^> . '‘/ Ai,, ;,, " ^;,‘V : 

^Itiaf5tylife' 'r»77#n;! , . iffiMV.- : 



vSi-'i*;-' ' i.'V' ■ ''Vy‘ * .' ■■ 


:'m 

. • ^ i J •- ^/l‘ 

*' c- ‘^^L’ '^fr 
.s • 

* . •* e 


. s 


1 

A. 


■• -'^- 


>y^ 


■■' :0M 






CHAPTER LV. 


When Temple left Cathie and rowed himself back, 
the fierce passion burnt itself out slowly, and in 
the sober morning light he found his self-respect 
was gone. 

He was very wretched. To lose satisfaction in 
one’s self is a very unpleasant thing. 

One has to live with one’s self, and to live 
with any one who has thoroughly displeased 
you is about as unpleasant a thing as can be 
done. So to improve this state of things 
Temple turned his displeasure from himself to 
Cathie. 

How little she had really loved him ! How 
little she had trusted him ! With her hand in his, 
she had, at the last moment, drawn back. It 
was really the loaves and the fishes she w^anted 
after all. She wanted to be established at Up- 
cott Hall. He bit his lips till the blood came. 
She had deceived him from the first, and mocked 
him at the last. This experience he had entered on 


288 


’POSTLE FARM. 


with such a light heart had ended disastrously for 
him. He had always had a faint suspicion it might 
end disastrously for the girl. But she was safe 
— while he ! God, what a wreck of a man he was ! 
His love for Cathie had been tortured into hatred. 
Yes; he hated her — he was sure he did. Here 
he stood, with love played out, and scarcely one 
instant’s satisfaction in it. He had thought — he 
would have staked his life on it indeed — that he 
loved Cathie with a love that could never diminish. 
He had looked forward to a far future, when, 
though unrecognised by the world, she would still 
be to him the best, the dearest. And now! love 
was already dead. He felt nothing but anger. 
She had been ungrateful ; she had been heart- 
less ; she had amused herself at his expense. 
He had thought she would pour out the 
riches of her love upon him, and dare any- 
thing for his sake. She had poured out noth- 
ing ; she had dared nothing. It had all been a 
horrible affair, and his fingers had been badly 
burnt. 

He was very wretched. He had thought beyond 
a doubt that he absolutely loved crazy Cathie. True, 
he had not thought so till she parted the boughs 
of their bower, and stood before him after an 
absence of many weeks. It had rushed upon him 
then that he must love her henceforth and for 
ever. And now ! Yet, surely, what he had felt at 
that moment was love. If so, then, why had it 


THE AWAKENING. 


289 


not lasted? Temple was still young, and had not 
fully grasped the fact that even heart emotions 
may prove only transitory. 

Since what he had felt for Cathie had not been 
love, how was he to know love ? How was any one 
to know love? 

Until he met Cathie he had thought he loved 
Elsie. Was he to go through life like this ? 
Always under the impression he had met the 
one girl of his heart, until misfortune threw an- 
other in his path, whom he loved rather better. 
It must be stopped — it was degrading. He would 
go away at once and propose to Elsie, and finish 
the whole business. 

But he had lost all confidence in himself. How 
could he be sure marriage would prove a seal 
to his actions ? In the case of Cathie, he had 
acted in the most inconsequent way. Well, he 
would be on his guard now, so that he should 
not act inconsequently again. 

Yet when he thought of marriage with Elsie 
he felt too utterly dispirited to go through with 
it. No ; the best possible thing he could do 
was to go away, and forget everything for a 
while. 

He would speak to Lord Frobisher, and see if 
he would let him have the necessary cash for a 
trip round the world. He did not suppose he 
would like the suggestion, — nor did he. Eventu- 
ally, however, he consented, and Temple started 
T 


290 


’POSTLE FARM. 


globe - trotting, in search of his lost self-respect, 
and to learn exactly, if possible, when an emotion 
of the heart means love, and when it only means 
something transient as a dewdrop, and much less 
transparent 


CHAPTER LVI. 


The months that followed Temple’s departure were 
unhappy ones to Elsie. She had expected him, 
even if he did not favour her with an open declara- 
tion, to give her some sure sign that his heart 
was hers. But he had left her without giving 
her any reason to believe that he eventually meant 
to make her his wife. 

Mrs Clavers did not improve matters by openly 
expressing her disapprobation of his conduct. 

If there is a class of young men I more 
thoroughly despise than another,” she said severely, 
“it is the class that leads girls on, and then make 
their escape to the Continent. I shall refuse him 
the house if he dares to return ! ” 

“ I am sure he never lead me on. I never dreamt 
for a moment he meant anything,” said Elsie; for 
even the most truthful girls are apt, under some 
circumstances, to make indignant denials that are 
contrary to their feelings. “The last thing I ex- 
pected him to do was to propose.” 


292 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ Then why this depression ? ” demanded Mrs 
C layers. 

Mrs Clavers had always been a very happy 
woman herself, and she could not understand un- 
happiness in others. She was a little inclined to 
think happiness is of one’s own choosing. It an- 
noyed her to think Elsie had had an unfortunate 
love-affair ; it did not excite her sympathy. She 
was disposed to think her own happiness was not 
bestowed by a gracious Providence, but rather 
by her own intervention. She regarded health in 
the same way. If her daughter were ill she was 
quite annoyed, and resented all kind inquiries. She 
had never been ill. Why should Elsie be ? 


CHAPTER LVII. 


Lady Gamble had a nephew. He had happened 
to drop in in a friendly way at ’Postle Farm on 
the afternoon Cathie had been asked there. 

When a woman is particularly beautiful a man’s 
love for her is more or less conceived at first sight. 
He desires her as we all desire the beautiful, though 
often but imperfectly understanding wherein the 
beautiful consists. Provided he discovers no violent 
temper or hateful fault — or sometimes in spite of 
these — the little root of love, planted at that first 
meeting, blossoms and bears fruit — especially in 
the young and inexperienced heart. 

Cyril Wain found a sudden charm in Upcott. 
The world to him became a changed world since 
the afternoon he drank tea at ’Postle Farm. He 
came often to the School Cottage, first on one 
pretext then another. He took to attending both 
morning and evening church there. If he bicycled, 
it was on the Upcott road. If he drove, if he 
walked, it was still the Upcott road. And often 


294 


’POSTLE FARM. 


he was rewarded by a glimpse of Cathie, or even 
by a few sentences exchanged with her. 

“ I cannot think why Mr Wain comes so often to 
Upcott now,” said Mrs Eliot, one day as she and 
Cathie were sitting at breakfast. 

‘‘You know as well as I do,” said Cathie, calmly. 

“ It is your duty, dear, to discourage him,” said 
Mrs Eliot, when she had recovered from the first 
surprise. 

“ I know.” 

No more was said. 

That evening, as Mrs Eliot, Cathie, and Laury 
were returning from taking a stroll through the 
woods that bordered Upcott, they met Cyril. 

Cathie walked on. 

“ I must make up for lost time,” she said. 

When Mrs Eliot came in a few minutes later, 
she found Cathie already at work. 

“You are a good dear girl!” she said. 

“Why should I want to jibber-jaw — talk, I mean 
— with he — him?” 

One afternoon, as Cathie was putting on her hat 
to walk out, Mrs Eliot said — 

“ May I speak to you, dear ? I have something 
important to say.” 

Cathie turned her dark eyes on Mrs Eliot with a 
curious expression and sat down. 

“You have noticed,” began Mrs Eliot, nervously, 
“that Mr Wain has — admires you very much.” 


THE AWAKENING. 


295 


Cathie yawned. 

“ He spoke to me to-day. I told him he must not 
dream of marrying you.” 

“ I should think not ! ” said Cathie. 

“ I told him,” continued Mrs Eliot, “ that his aunt 
would never forgive me the blow. You have no feel- 
ing for him, dear, have you ? ” she almost pleaded. 

‘^None.” 

“ And you will not try to have ? I know you are 
ambitious, and ” 

“I’m not ambitious to marry the wrong man!” 
said Cathie. 

“What have you against him? I am afraid it 
means your heart is already engaged somewhere 
else,” said Mrs Eliot ; “ and although it helps me 
out of my present difficulty, I do hope your heart’s 
choice has been wise.” 

“ I didn’ say I’d made a heart’s choice I ” said 
Cathie, frowning. 

“You know, Cathie, dear, you are very incompre- 
hensible, and I want to understand you, and it 
occurred to me you perhaps had an object in view 
for studying so hard. If you would just tell me a 
little about yourself, I might perhaps be able to help 
you.” 

Cathie was silent. She resented this cross- 
examination. 

“You must not be angry with me, Cathie,” said 
Mrs Eliot ; “ only I can’t help feeling anxious about 
your future. I do hope, if you have given your 


296 ’POSTLE FARM. 

heart to any one, it is somebody you can depend 
upon.” 

To her surprise Cathie answered — 

I don’t know as how I can.” 

“That does not sound very promising,” said Mrs 
Eliot. “A man that cannot be depended on is 
hardly the man to make you a happy wife. Is he 
equal to you in station ? ” 

“No,” said Cathie, a mischievous light flashing in 
her eye. “But there! what’s the odds o’ that so 
long as I love ’n?” 

“Is he what you call in these parts a good 
getter ? ” 

“Very,” said Cathie, emphatically. 

“But he is not your equal? Then surely your 
education is a desperate mistake?” 

“I alway loved learnin’, and wanted for know 
things before ever I met him. Of course if I get to 
know more’n he, I can teach un it — see ? ” 

“ When you said he was not your equal did you 
mean in character or station ? ” 

“ I reckon when a girl loves she don’t think the 
man she’s lovin’ not equal to her in character, any- 
way I ” 

“You said he was not to be depended upon, and 
not your equal in station. I’m afraid, Cathie, you 
have not much chance of happiness,” said Mrs Eliot, 
sadly. “ Promise to do nothing definite without con- 
sulting me,” she said, after a pause. “ I think you 
owe this to me.” 


THE AWAKENING. 


297 


Cathie hesitated. 

“Well,” she said at last, grudgingly, “p’raps I 
won’t, but I can’t promise.” 

“ Let me implore you,” Mrs Eliot cried, in the 
words of Temple, “never to marry beneath you. It 
would bring you intense misery. There is no middle 
course. You will not be kind to me, Cathie, if you 
undertake so important a step without first consult- 
ing me.” 

Cathie rose to her feet restlessly. Then, with a 
sudden smile, she turned to Mrs Eliot and said — 

“ I’ll promise you one thing — I won’t marry be- 
neath me without telling you first.” 

Mrs Eliot shook her head as Cathie left the 
room. 

She began to think perhaps Lady Gamble’s advice 
to educate her elsewhere was best. The school- 
mistress was returning shortly, and Mrs Eliot felt 
Cathie would be an inconvenience to her when she 
resumed her ordinary life. 

As they were sitting together next evening, she 
said — 

“ It would be a good experience for you, Cathie, 
to go to school at Exeter.” 

“No,” said Cathie ; “ I’ll bide where I be !” 

“ Stay where I am,” corrected Mrs Eliot. 

“No! no!” said Cathie, almost passionately; 
“ bide where I be ! ” and she got up abruptly, and 
outside, in the little dusky garden, she dashed away 
the hot tears that had rushed to her eyes. 


2gS 


*POSTLE FARM. 


“Bide where I be!” she repeated determinedly. 
“Ay, ay, from now to Michaelmas, and from Michael- 
mas to now — year in, year out. I’ll bide where I be ; 
and if he never comes — if I never see him I Ah ! 
but he will, he will 1 I shall 1 If I bide where I be, 
I shall surely see him one day ! 

And half a hundred miles away a man and woman 
walked together and plighted their troth. 

And the man remembered a past that for a brief 
season had seemed beautiful, but was now dust and 
ashes, fast being pressed into the limbo of forget- 
fulness. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


One evening Catherine was sitting in the garden 
studying, when the sound of horse’s hoofs made her 
raise her head. She did it absently, rapidly con- 
jugating a French verb the while. 

Cyril reined in his horse, dismounted, and came 
up the little narrow garden -path. Catherine was 
annoyed at the interruption, but already too well- 
mannered to evince it. You cannot live in close 
daily contact with a gentlewoman for several 
months without reflecting her somewhat, unless 
you are unusually obtuse. 

Cyril held in his hand a beautiful bunch of roses ; 
these he held out to her, saying — 

“ I have brought you these. They looked so fresh, 
and their colour was so fine.” 

“ Mrs Eliot will be pleased with them,” said Cathie. 
“ Thank you very much.” 

“ I brought them for you,” he said. 

Ah, but you should not ! ” and she looked the 
young man full in the face, with an expression that 
was not far removed from motherly. 


300 


*P0STLE FARM. 


He was a straight-limbed, tall, fair young fellow, 
exceedingly unlike his aunt. He was the sort of 
fellow one knows instinctively had a gentle, well- 
bred woman for his mother ; and one knows also 
he will never shame her. 

‘'Why should I not?” he said. “May I sit out 
here a little while, or are you busy?” 

“ Not busier than usual,” she answered, smiling ; 
“but when a body’s close on fifteen years behind 
with an education, it tak’s a bit o’ time to make it 
up like. Now, what did I say wrong in that ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing ! ” he answered fervently. 

“ Ah,” she said, “ you’re not kind ! you won’t tell ! ” 

“Doesn’t it bore you to death to be caught up 
every time you speak?” 

“ No, because I want to learn — I must learn. 
The people it bores to death is them as has to catch 
me up. Now, what’s there wrong in that ? ” 

“Don’t come to me to tell you. I like your 
English just as it is.” 

“ Do you really ? ” she asked, leaning, forward 
with a sudden eagerness. Then her face fell a 
little, and she sighed, and did not heed his 
answer. 

“ Now, will you hear me this ? ” she asked, holding 
out a French book of poetry. “ I like French — 
seems like my native tongue.” 

“ What ! like Devonshire ? ” 

“And why not? Didn’t the French hang about 
this western coast a deal ? Ah, but my Devonshire ! 


THE AWAKENING. 


301 


Why do I love un so ? ” She suddenly covered her 
face with her hands. “ And what good will it bring 
me breaking of it off? sometimes I ask ; some- 
times I wonder.” 

There were tears in her eyes. 

“ Look at me,” she said ; ain’t I silly ? I wonder 
was ever any one in this world a-satisfied ? I wonder 
if everybody ain’t always a-longing for something 
they an’t got?” 

It had grown dusk, and she rose and led the way 
into the cottage. 

** There be that moth in the candle ; fancies he 
wants more light, and it only burns him. P’raps 
I’m like the moth. Sometimes I get cruel dis- 
couraged. However, I ain’t goin’ to give in. Hear 
us the poetry, will ’ee ? ” 

And the young man sat holding the tattered 
French poetry book, the candlelight falling full on 
his clear, wholesome skin ; and near him sat Cathie 
in her white gown, and leaning forward with her 
hands clasped, while she laboriously repeated 
French poetry. 

One could picture for the young man a touchingly 
simple old age, — grandchildren about his knees ; 
but for the girl it was difficult to picture a future. 
The eyes, all fire and softness, the determined chin, 
the strangely expressive mouth, the delicate nostril, 
haughty and refined, the ambition expressed in the 
magnificent poise of the head. Hers was a future 
none could gauge. 


302 


’POSTLE FARM. 


There was a step outside on the gravel. The door 
stood wide open, and with a “May I come in ? ” 
Montague entered. He had come for a book Mrs 
Eliot had promised to lend Madge. 

It was as if a strong magnetic current passed 
through Cathie. Anything that reminded her of 
Tostle Farm made her heart beat faster. She rose 
to her feet, and stood confronting Montague, and 
for a moment or two neither spoke. It was the 
first time Cathie had ever consciously observed him. 

“If I had a trouble I’d tak’ it to un,” was the 
thought that flashed through her mind. 

And then the slow smile broke upon her face — 
the smile that had once sent Temple’s heart a-beat- 
ing, and now caused poor Cyril, looking up from the 
tattered leaves of the French poetry book, to swallow 
hard a couple of times, and set his teeth. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


Meanwhile Temple had returned from his globe- 
trotting. He had shot for two months on the 
Rocky Mountains ; he had lived a gay life in New 
York, and the American belles had shed their 
dazzling light upon him ; he had toiled in the 
mines of Australia, and idled on the hills of 
Bombay. Of women, however, he had all the while 
been distinctly afraid. When he looked into hand- 
some eyes he was fearful lest they should lure him 
into a semblance of love. But as time passed he 
plucked up courage, and when he set foot again on 
English shore, and found himself once more in the 
presence of Elsie Clavers, he asked himself — 

“ What can I do better than marry her if she will 
have me ? ” 

So one afternoon, about a fortnight after his 
return, he asked the momentous question, and 
received the momentous answer. 

Mrs Clavers was radiant ; but, afraid of appearing 
too much so, she let fly little sarcasms at Temple, 
which he tried to bear unflinchingly, but which, 


304 


*POSTLE FARM. 


nevertheless, found out the weak places in his 
armour, and made him wince. 

Elsie was quite a different kind of woman. She 
covered him with her loving confidence, and wrapped 
him in a wonderful halo of perfection, and poured 
out her simple affection almost with the artlessness 
of a child. And Temple received it all, and tried 
to think himself blessed beyond all blessing, rich 
beyond all measure. 

But his heart was a miserable dead thing, and he 
knew it. The fire, the passion, was swept away. It 
was not even an empty vessel, or then there might 
have been hope. It was a vessel full to the brim, 
but the contents were frozen. 

Some people grow old so gently — here a little 
and there a little, line upon line, precept upon 
precept — that they have no notion of advancing 
time till they suddenly find themselves on the table- 
land of middle age. The smiling valley of youth 
lies far below them, and the steep mountain summit 
before them. 

Others, on the contrary, can remember the very 
hour, the precise moment, when youth left them. 
They can point unerringly to just the spot on the 
mounting path where the step lost its lightness and 
the heart its fire. So it had been with Temple. 

It was an understood thing that his engagement 
with Elsie must continue till Lord Frobisher’s death. 
Mrs Clavers was firm on this point She remem- 


THE AWAKENING. 


305 


bered the old adage, “There's many a slip 'twixt 
the cup and the lip.” She did not intend Elsie to 
marry a pauper. 

To Temple his long engagement was a purgatory. 
If only he could settle down into a quiet married 
life all would be well, he felt. 

He wanted to be happy and light-hearted, and 
he usually succeeded in making people think him 
so. But when he was alone Fate weighed upon 
him. He had kept his return to England a secret 
from Lord Frobisher for three weeks, and, on writ- 
ing, Lord Frobisher wired him from Brighton. It 
was not until the following spring he was obliged 
to pay his dreaded visit to the Hall. 

Yes; there it stood, with its old, grey, weather- 
beaten walls! For the first time after all his 
wanderings he saw it. His heart thumped against 
his side ; his head was dizzy. 

No, no; he had not behaved well to her! But 
then he had intended to behave better than hun- 
dreds of other men. He had not meant to do 
her any harm. Only he had suddenly ceased to 
love her, — that was the dreadful part However 
closely he had adhered to the programme he had 
marked out for himself, in the very fact of his 
ceasing to love her the injury was done — the 
woman was wronged. 

If he ceased to love her because she had refused 

U 


3o6 


'POSTLE FARM. 


to throw in her life with his, what would have 
happened had she poured out the fulness of a 
loving heart to him? 

Along the beaten path of such life-sacrifices, we 
know what happens. And as Temple stood and 
faced the frowning walls of the old farm, he tried 
to thresh the subject out. Would the old happy 
content never come back to him ? What had he 
done to forfeit it? He had not sinned! 

And whose fault was it that he had not sinned? 

“Cathie, Cathie!” he cried brokenly, for the 
first time facing the whole truth of the matter. 
“You were too good for me! I did not deserve 
you, and I lost you ! You were infinitely far 
above me ! I could not reach you. I have lost 
you now — for even, if you could forgive me, I am 
no longer free to ask it ! ” 

Heaven had stooped and given him love ; he had 
turned aside, and love must perish. 


CHAPTER LX. 


Temple looked out from his bedroom window. He 
must go and tell her all. It was only fair to her 
that he should explain. But his mentor told him 
no. He must write. 

He knew in his own secret soul, to meet her now 
would be madness. He dreaded, above all things, 
his courage failing ; and he tried, with all the 
strength of his nature, to keep his thoughts from 
dwelling on her. 

It was early spring. Dazzling clouds floated 
over the radiant sun at rapid intervals, and cast 
over the shining landscape shadows like dimples 
on the cheek of laughter. Temple told himself, 
with a persistency that argued otherwise, that he 
was not thinking of the old farm, nor even of 
Cathie. 

Suddenly he found himself picturing how it 
would look under the changing aspect of the day. 
He shot a quick, almost feverish, glance across the 
river. 

The white wings of a sea-gull fluttered against the 


3o8 


’POSTLE FARM. 


grey walls for an instant, like the spirit of love 
seeking rest and finding none, and the sunlight 
flashed for one brilliant instant on its wings. Then 
came shadow. 

To get away from temptation he ordered a horse 
and rode into Upcott. He put his horse up at the 
“Long Bider” inn, with the intention of looking 
through the papers in the Free Library. But he 
was too restless to sit and read. He got up and 
walked through the larch wood that led to the 
high road. 

The larches, for him, were not there. The old 
grey farm was before him, with its windowless 
walls that faced the river, and the grey green hill 
stretching below and above. 

Then suddenly Cathie stood before him. At 
first, in the glamour of his own imagination, he 
thought his brain had conjured her there. He 
started back. Then he understood. He was too 
much enthralled by the fact that it was she, to 
notice the wonderful change in her appearance. 

“ Cathie ! ” he cried. Then he finished hoarsely, 
“ I am not free. I belong to some one else ! ” 

She turned white to the lips — slowly — as though the 
thought were getting nearer and nearer to her heart 

“ Forgive me ! ” he groaned. “ I was mad. I 
was worse — a fool. All this while I never knew. 
Then suddenly I understood. I knew then I 
wanted nothing in all the world but you to be 
my wife! But it’s too late — too late!** 


THE AWAKENING. 


309 

She stood so still, — only looking at him with 
eyes that seemed to read his soul. 

“ For God’s sake say something ! ” he gasped. 

Say you hate me ! say you despise me — or, best 
of all, if you only could — say you forgive me! 
Oh!” he cried, turning away, "what a loathsome 
hound I’ve been ! ” 

He felt her arms about him. 

“ Do you forgive me ? ” he cried ; and though 
the blood coursed through his veins he would not 
take the kiss he craved. 

Then her arms stole upwards as she answered, 
speaking slowly and with difficulty — 

"There is no forgiveness in love. It has noth- 
ing to forgive ! ” 

And ere the words had quite left her parted lips, 
he kissed her. 

She was weeping. Not with sorrow. The sorrow 
of it all was at that moment blotted out with the 
exceeding joy that he was ready to make her his 
wife — yes; though she were only a farm-girl in 
rags. He had spoken for her, and she did not 
doubt him. He had come to her desiring nothing 
but to call her his. And she had wanted this. She 
had wanted him to love her for the soul that was 
within her, and the poor trappings of the body 
she had wanted to slip from his sight and fall 
in ashes at his feet. This is how women like to 
be loved, and how men never love. Women who 


310 


'POSTLE FARM. 


want it, want what is impossible, and when Temple 
overlooked Cathie’s birth, her rags, her education, 
he overlooked as much as one could expect a 
man to. Had Cathie been less beautiful Temple 
would never have wanted to call her his. 

He loved her for her soul ; but he loved her also 
for the beautiful casket that held it. 


CHAPTER LXI, 


Cathie walked home in a bewildered state. For 
eighteen months she had been working ardently 
for Temple, and now she could never bring the 
rich offering of her patience to his feet. He be- 
longed to another. It was beyond her power just 
then to grasp the thought. It was like the sudden 
discharge of a cannon close at hand that leaves 
one stunned, and unable for the moment to identify 
the cause. Or it was to her as if she had been 
climbing laboriously up a steep hill, believing that 
at the summit a magnificent tableland would stretch 
before her, and as she reached the utmost crag 
and looked out with eager, gladdened eyes, beheld 
a bottomless abyss. She had reached the end of 
all things. 

Mrs Eliot was startled by her quietude. After 
tea she had drawn out her books from force of 
habit, but she sat listless over them. Her eyes 
stared blankly on the page. Then suddenly the 
full tide of realisation swept upon her. Oh! it 
was too much, too much to bear ! She could bear 


312 


*POSTLE FARM. 


much, but not this. Not to lose him, just as she 
was almost worthy of him. There was no com- 
passionate God. There was no Lord who was 
mindful of her sorrows. All her life she had had 
nothing but taunts and gibes and bruises. She 
had been crushed and ground down under the 
heel of adversity. She would not be any longer. 
She would take her fate in her own hands. 
She started from her seat and swept the books 
to the floor. She stamped upon them with her 
feet. She was maddened with grief. 

“ She is crazy, as the country people said 1 ” was 
Mrs Eliot’s first thought, as she started trembling 
towards the girl. 

“ Don’t, don’t ! ” Cathie cried. “ Keep away ! 
I’m not responsible ! I’m mad ! ” 

Mrs Eliot shrank back in terror. She was alone 
in the cottage, and a great fear of Cathie fell 
upon her. 

“Compose yourself, Cathie!” she said, trying to 
speak firmly. 

“Compose myself! Yes; when your heart is 
bruised and torn and battered and kicked about 
from pillar to post. Compose yourself! Bah!” 

This was madness. Mrs Eliot slipped to the 
door ; she would run for the doctor. Fortunately 
for her beating heart the doctor’s house was but 
a stone’s throw from her own. She startled the 
inmates by peal after peal at the door bell. The 
doctor was giving a quiet dinner - party, in the 


THE AWAKENING. 313 

middle of which he had already been called out. 
Montague was of the party. 

Mrs Eliot ! ” he cried — the first to grasp the 
situation — and an awful pallor crept into his heart. 
“What is it?” 

“Cathie!” she gasped, pointing in the direction 
of the schoolhouse. Montague waited for no more, 
— he ran. 

He reached the schoolhouse just as Cathie flung 
open the door. She was going ; she didn’t know 
where, and she didn’t care. 

At the sight of him she paused, and he led her back. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

She looked and looked. Then she turned and 
sat down quietly. 

“Yes, I’ll tell ’ee,” she said, with a little sob. 

He sat down, too, and waited. 

“ I loved a man,” she said at last. “ God, how I 
loved un ! He never meant me fair and straight, 
but I trusted un.” Every particle of colour went 
out of Montague’s face. The fear he had gradu- 
ally put from him returned in a tide of convic- 
tion. She stopped a moment and pressed her 
hands together. “ I trusted un,” she repeated. “ I 
felt so sure he’d come back to me. I kind of 
knowed he would. And to-day he came, but — 
not for me. He’s married another!” 

There was a long silence. Then she suddenly 
drew herself up and looked straight at Montague. 

“An’ what do I care?” she cried. 


314 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“You mustn’t say that,” said Montague. “You 
care very much. But you can live it down. You 
must care. If you cease to care you will lose 
your self-respect!” 

“ On the contrary, I shall keep it ! ” she answered, 
not understanding his thought. “ I shall keep it ! ” 
she repeated, “ but it hit me cruel hard ! ” 

She rocked herself to and fro a minute, and the 
tears came. 

“ He was so gentle,” she said, “ and he always 
meant well by me — I know he did. But, some- 
how, he didn’t know the stuff I was made on. 
He couldn’t seem someways to see I’d a-got a 
determination to carry me through ’most any 
place. Queer, wasn’t it? ’Cause he loved me — 
yet he couldn’t tak’ the measure o’ me. He 
couldn’t think I could work myself up, like, and 
be a lady. I know what a lady is, bless ’ee. 
’Tisn’t education an’ fine clothes — it’s the inward 
heart o’ mun. An’ I’d a-made all that for un 
because — well, of course, I just loved him. And 
he wasn’t to blame because he couldn’t see what 
I’d make of myself! That wasn’t no fault of his! 
He thought I’d always bide as I was — just a 
rough farm - girl — so how could he marry me, 
thinking that?” 

Montague made no answer. 

“Supposing, now,” said she, “I was a rough 
farm-maid, an’ ’ee’d seen a lot o’ me, an’ knew 
me, an’ loved me; well, now, would ’ee make a 


THE AWAKENING. 


315 


wife o’ me ? ’Course not ! ” Then, after a moment’s 
pause, very wistfully, ’Ee wouldn’, would ’ee ? ” 

“If I once felt you were the woman created for 
me, I should know your possibilities, and, in short, 
I should not hesitate,” said Montague. “But that 
is entirely beside the question. You belong to 
another. I have known that from the first. It is 
not possible to judge one man’s actions by an- 
other’s. But this I will tell you,” — and he rose 
and clenched his fist, while the veins swelled in 
his forehead, — “ If the man you are speaking of 
were here, no power on earth would stop me from 
taking him by the throat and breaking every 
bone in his body ! He’s a cur, and I’d shake him 
like a rat! He’s a despicable mean hound, and 
I’d horsewhip him I I tell you that man’s not fit 
to touch you — and, good God, what has he not 
done I ” 

He was too much agitated to notice the fury 
that blazed in her eyes. The first thing that re- 
called her presence was the icy cold tones of her 
voice. 

“ Have you quite finished } Because the door is 
there. It only needs opening.” 

“ I spoke too hotly,” he said, in quick self- 
reproach. 

“ You did. The man you spoke of is the man 
I love.” 

“ Of course ! ” he said ; “ I had forgotten.” 

“If you forget again ” 


3*6 


'POSTLE FARM. 


I know ; you will never speak to me after.” 

Already there was the sound of returning foot- 
steps hurrying up the path. 

“ One thing only,” said Montague, hurriedly ; “ be 
true to yourself, to your higher instincts, and care 
for that man still, while you have a breath to 
breathe with. Never cheat yourself into believing 
that you don’t For God’s sake give yourself to 
no other, unless it be to a man you respect.” 

Mrs Eliot threw open the door and entered with 
the doctor, 

“She is better now,” said Montague. “The 
attack has passed,” and, without looking again in 
Cathie’s direction, he shook hands with Mrs Eliot, 
and was about to leave, but Cathie riveted him. 
Standing up straight and firm she pointed to the 
door. 

“ I won’t see no doctor,” she said. “ Either him 
or me goes out of that door.” 

Montague whispered a word to the doctor. 

“My dear young lady,” he said, “this isn’t a 
professional visit.” And he sat down and con- 
versed with them both. He left shortly, assuring 
Mrs Eliot by many nods and signs that she had 
nothing to fear. 

“ I was just a-strivin’ to mak’ up my mind over 
something,” said Cathie, when the door closed 
behind him. “And now I’ve done it, and I’ll tell 
’ee what ’tis. I’m mortal sick someways of learn- 
ing here; I’m going to London to learn.” 


THE AWAKENING. 


317 


The air of Upcott seemed to Cathie as if it 
would choke her. She felt she must go away until 
she had conquered some of the heartbreak within 
her. 

** Going to London ? That will be fearfully ex- 
pensive! You will run through all your poor 
grandfather’s savings in a year, and then what 
will happen?” 

“ I can get other money,” she answered. I’ve 
got other.” 

Mrs Eliot had learnt that when Cathie made up 
her mind to a thing it was useless to try and dis- 
suade her. She therefore made no further objec- 
tion, and she promised to find a suitable place for 
the girl to go to. 

“If she were a man,” she said to herself, “she 
would work her way up to a premiership. As a 
woman, I suppose, she will merely make a brilliant 
match.” 


CHAPTER LXIL 


No thought of an onlooker had troubled Temple 
and Catherine when they met in the larch wood. 
They were too much absorbed in each other to be 
troubled by any outside thought. But a man at 
work amongst the fallen timber saw them. 

“ If I can’t ’ave the me-aid myself, by she 

shan’t ’ave no other man ’fore I’ve shamed ’er for 
a witch,” he cried, with his lowering gaze upon 
them. “’Er tricked me out o’ a luck wi’ Bessie, 
I always know ’er did ! Ah, but if I could get 
’er! Theer mus’ be some’at ’bout ’er or thiccy 
cussed clean shaver wouldn’ be ’avin a dab for ’er. 
That old cuss Grandfer’d a-saved a middlin’ pile, 
I knows. See ’ow the maid carr’es on wi’ ’er learnin’ 
an’ ’er fiddlesticks. See ’ow ’er clothies ’erself. I’ll 
draw blood from ’er for a witch yet, see if I don’t. 
’Er b’ain’t easy for skeer, I know, but I’ll skeer ’er 
this time — I’ll bet I will 1” 

This required management, and he set to work 
to do it. He wanted to get back into Mrs 
Mollard’s good books ; he wanted very much to 


THE AWAKENING. 


319 


persuade her it was all along of “thiccy avil-eyed 
witch Cathie” that he had dared to aspire to the 
hand of Bessie. If he could arrange to bring 
Cathie to Stibb Farm, just as Mrs Mollard was 
working the charm, she would believe him, and 
he — he would have the satisfaction of drawing 
blood from her as a witch, and breaking her 
power, 

• •••••« • 

“’Ave ’ee. stecked the ’eart wi’ pins?” whispered 
Miah. 

“ Ees ; an’ I bey closin’ of the doo-ors ! ” cried 
Mrs Mollard, trembling with excitement. “Us’ll 
zee whether I can’t pay ’er out or no vor what ’er 
’ath a-done toy me times an’ over!” 

She closed the door and bolted it. The baby 
was sleeping, the children were at a neighbour’s, 
her husband at Fammelsea market. Trembling, 
she watched the red heart roast before the fire. 

Miah had taken a message to Cathie that she 
was wanted at ’Postle Farm. The bullock, whose 
death lay at her door, he had driven to its death 
by a simple contrivance, all traces of which he 
had now removed. 

Cathie walked forward unsuspectingly. As she 
reached the crown of the hill, she came face to 
face with Miah. He appeared to be hurried. 

“If ’ee plase, Cathie,” he said, “wild ’ee kindly 
come along to Stibb Varm, Mrs Mollard’s a-took 
bad, an’ I’m a-rinnin’ vor the doctor, eef ’ee’U 


’POSTLE FARM. 


3^0 

kindly walk on, as the chil’ern be all to school an* 
master not back from market.” 

A strong distaste for the task took possession 
of Catherine. “ I must go ; ’tis but human ! ” was 
her thought, and she turned aside to take the 
path across the fields. But the farther she went 
the more strong was her disinclination. 

“ She isn’t ill at all ! ” she suddenly exclaimed, 
“ ’Tis some trick. I’ll turn straight back ! ” 

But she had already come some way. The grey 
mist had closed in over the hills, and the shades 
of evening were fast settling into night. 

She turned abruptly and began to mount the 
hill. Presently she became aware of a figure be- 
fore her. As she came near a voice said — 

“Wull, why an’t ’ee gone on.^’* 

“ Why an’t ’ee } ” she retorted. 

“I met the doctor’s gig, an’ ee’s cornin’ round 
by the road.” 

“Then I need not go on since he is coming,” 
she answered. 

“ Ees, ’ee need,” he answered, gripping her 
strongly by the wrist. “ I bid ’ee to — so go ! ” 

A sense of greater fear than she had ever known 
settled upon Catherine. She wrenched her arm 
from his grasp, and started backwards. Uncon- 
sciously she glanced round for protection. 

“Luk ’ee ’ere,” said Miah, recapturing her, and 
hissing the words close to her face ; “ ’ee’ve got to 
go to Stibb Varm, or I’ll mak’ ’ee. They’ll a-vetch 


THE AWAKENING. 


3*1 

blood from *ee vor a witch toy — vor that’s what 
'ee bey — an’ all country-zide know’th it. Theer bey 
one way out o’t Swear to mar’ me, an’ I’ll a-tak’ 
’ee back safe — vor you know, Cathie,” — here he 
changed his voice into wheedling tones, — “ I was 
always mazed over ’ee. I always thought a zight 
on ’ee, my dear, you’m that ’andsome ! ” 

Cathie met his bloodshot eyes and did not 
flinch. 

“Miah Sluman,” she said, “you can’t frighten 
me ! ” But though she spoke boldly, it was only 
by intense effort she kept from trembling. “ I’ll 
tell you this, though I wonder you don’t know it 
without my telling you, — I’d die before I’d so much 
as stay one hour in the same spot with ’ee ! ” 

She tried to push past him. But he stood in 
front of her. Then she realised her position was 
desperate. 

It was on this same afternoon that Montague stood 
painting in his studio. Glancing out of the window 
as he turned to fetch a colour from his box on the 
window-sill, he saw Cathie standing on the ridge 
of the hill beckoning to him. It seemed to him 
at that moment as if this was what he had been 
expecting all his life. 

Hastily putting down his palette and brushes, 
he turned from the room and mounted the hill to 
join her. 

On the summit of the ridge the mist surrounded 
X 


322 


*POSTLE FARM. 


him. It was a weird evening. Sudden gusts shook 
the hedgerows, or seizing one leaf, made it swirl 
ceaselessly, while all the rest were still. Shadows 
seemed to be fleeing at rapid intervals across his 
steps ; yet the sun had long set, and the moon had 
not risen. 

He quickened his steps: a sense of uneasiness 
weighed upon him. Suddenly a hare dashed across 
his path, and at the same instant night fell. It 
seemed to drop on him like a pall He had reached 
the edge of the ridge now ; but she had disappeared. 
What had she wanted ? And why had she not 
waited till he came? He felt anxious and un- 
certain. However, there was nothing to be gained 
by standing in the dark. He must act. At that 
instant he heard his own name called twice, in 
accents of despair. A cold perspiration burst 
upon his forehead. There was an eerie feeling on 
the desolate hill, and he resented his inability 
to throw off the sense of danger that oppressed 
him. 

He sprang forward. He seemed to be fighting 
an impenetrable wall of mist. Then suddenly, as 
once before he had heard it, a woman’s scream 
rent the air. He felt his hair literally lift from 
his brow. 

“ Where ? Where ? ” he called ; and through the 
thick air his voice came back to him in muffled 
tones. He stopped to listen. There was a des- 


THE AWAKENING. 323 

perate stillness, broken only by his own laboured 
breathing. 

Then he plunged forward, and hurled himself into 
space. His fingers gripped at something, then him- 
self and another body rolled over and over down the 
grassy slope. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 


He held on with his iron grip all the while. When 
the rolling ceased he was holding on still. 

Then a woman’s voice said, with gasping sobs — 

“Oh, don’t kill him! Your fingers are on his 
throat. For God’s sake let go!” 

Gradually his grip slackened. A choking, retch- 
ing, writhing bundle lay on the grass. 

“You damnable coward, what were you doing to 
this woman } Who is the woman } ” 

He turned : it was too dark to see now, but a 
woman crept into his arms and lay there. He 
knew who she was. She was trembling and sobbing. 

“ I will take this devil into custody when he gets 
over his choking fit,” he said, presently. 

“ Let him go ! Let him go ! ” she sobbed. 

“ I will not let him go,” he answered. 

“You must I ” 

Montague hesitated. But her will was strong. 

“ Get up, you hound ! ” he said. 

And slowly the man staggered to his feet, and 
disappeared into the darkness. 


THE AWAKENING. 


325 


“ Let me keep him ! ” cried Montague. 

She shook her head. He could not see her face, 
for it was pressed against him; but he felt the 
movement. 

He did not speak again, waiting till she should be 
calm. Contact with him brought her strength ; she 
drew back from him. 

“Come with me,” he said, “and rest at Tostle 
Farm.” 

“ No, no, no ! ” she cried. 

“ But you cannot go home as you are. Tell me, 
are you hurt ? ” 

“No.” 

“ In no way ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Come back to the farm with me, and I will have 
you driven home.” 

“No, no, no ! ” 

“jWhat are you going to do, then ? ” 

“Walk home. You come 'long with me.” 

“ Tell me, who was it .^ ” 

“ No, I won’t ! ” 

And Montague, tormented with doubts, drew 
her hand through his arm, and marched stolidly 
home with her. Twice he had heard her scream 
in the darkness — once he had heard the frantic 
straining of the oars, the second time he had his 
fingers on a man’s throat. What was the mean- 
ing of this mystery? Naturally he connected the 
circumstances. 


326 


'POSTLE FARM. 


As he walked forward he felt something wet and 
warm on her wrist 

What is this ? ” he cried. 

Blood!” 

“Blood?” 

He took the matches from his pocket and struck 
one. The blood was dripping from her arm, and 
above it her white scared face, with the wild eyes, 
looked up into his own. 

“Cathie, Cathie!” he cried, •you told me you 
were not hurt ! ” 

She began to whimper while he bound her arm 
up. 

“ Don’t you tell anybody,” she said ; “ that’s what 
I’m thinkin’.” 

“ But I must tell. Mrs Eliot will have to 
know.” 

She snatched away the hand he had just bound. 

“Go, then,” she said; “you’re no friend. You 
may tell ; but mornin’ light won’t find me.” 

“Then tell me about it,” he said, “and I will tell 
no one.” 

“ There’s nothing to tell.” 

“As you will,” he answered, wearily; and they 
tramped on. 

This mystery of hers was torture to him. 

“ I wish you would tell me all about yourself,” he 
said at last. “ It would be much better.” 

“ Myself ’s myself— and just my affair and no one 
else’s.” 


THE AWAKENING. 


327 


“ No,” he answered, in a voice that shook a little 
in spite of himself ; “ when you meet people and 
bind them to you, your affair becomes theirs also. 

. Remember you beckoned me to help you.” 

‘*I didn’t!” she answered, indignantly. 

“ Excuse me, you stood on the ridge above 
’Postle farm and beckoned me — or if you did not, 
it was your double.” 

She made no answer, and they concluded their 
journey in silence. 

At the school cottage she put out both her hands 
to him. 

I ain’t got no proper thanks. But though my 
tongue can’t thank ’ee, my heart does.” 

She opened the cottage door, and stood for a 
moment with her beautiful figure silhouetted against 
the light within. 

Thus did she often appear to Montague^s fancy 
in the after days — with a glory round her, and an 
awful darkness on herself. And it tortured the man 
— yet he bore it in silence. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 


In due course a suitable school was found for 
Catherine, where she lived with girls of good breed- 
ing, and attended lectures. 

Mrs Eliot missed her sorely. But the girl went 
doggedly to work ; and if sometimes the loneliness 
of her position came home to her, she drove it from 
her, and pressed the more closely to her work. 

When the term closed Mrs Eliot expected Cath- 
erine to return for the holidays. But she remained 
in town. 

“Fm not coming back,” she wrote in her firm 
clear hand, “till I can keep myself from talking 
Devon when I’m startled. Here I hear none of 
it, and that gives me a chance. Sometimes I want 
to come back so, I can hardly keep myself. But 
I can wait.” 

When the summer vacation came round the fol- 
lowing year, Cathie came back to Upcott and stayed 
with Mrs Eliot in the little cottage Madge had once 
rented, overlooking the Teel. 

Now, although Lady Gamble had promised to 


THE AWAKENING. 


329 


give Catherine a helping hand as soon as she could 
talk “plain English,” as she expressed it, she by 
no means intended that her nephew should assist 
her in the task. 

The position of affairs after Cathie returned was 
self-evident. Lady Gamble herself saw them walk- 
ing together in the Upcott woods — and what more 
do you want for proof? 

She said not a word to her nephew, but the first 
thing the following day she ordered her carriage 
and drove to Upcott. Arrived there, she requested 
to see Cathie privately. 

Lady Gamble stood up as the girl entered, re- 
garding her haughtily. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she cried. “ Unprincipled 
girl, trying to engage the affection of my nephew I 
How dare you ! ” 

“ I dare do all that may become a woman. Who 
dares do more is none!” replied Cathie, who had 
been called away from Shakespeare. 

“ How dare you quote Milton to me, when I 
am seriously in earnest ! ” cried Lady Gamble. “ It 
is nothing in the world but bold-faced imperti- 
nence!” 

“When you have finished misnaming quotations 
may I go?” inquired Cathie. 

“ You may do nothing of the sort. I have come 
here to extract, or, if necessary, bribe you to a 
promise that you will no longer seek to entangle 
my poor nephew.” 


330 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“I suppose,” she said, “it’s the right of every 
woman to try and make the man she loves return 
her affection?” 

“ Oh, the boldness ! ” cried Lady Gamble. 

“So,” continued Catherine, “if I loved him, I 
should see no harm whatever in trying to make him 
love me. But, after all,” turning with a smile to 
Lady Gamble, “ this is entirely beside the question, 
because I don’t love him, so why waste time over 
abstruse questions?” 

Lady Gamble gasped. 

“You lie!” she cried, exasperated beyond herself. 

“ I don’t care what your title or position,” began 
Cathie. “ However, we’re degenerating into vulgar 
personalities. Your nephew is nothing to me, and 
if I am something to him, I have nothing to gain 
by it.” 

“You have all to gain by it I” said Lady Gamble, 
quivering with passion. “You mean to marry him, 
and you cannot deceive me ! ” 

“ Since your ladyship knows best,” said Catherine, 
“ I will not contradict you.” 

“ Ah I You confess to it ? ” 

“ Isn’t the asking of questions a little superfluous ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear girl ! ” cried Lady Gamble, feeling 
she had begun on the wrong tack, “do not let us 
be absurd with each other. Let us come to an 
understanding. Have you set your heart upon 
him?” 

“Certainly not!” said Cathie, indignantly. 


THE AWAKENING. 


331 


May I believe you } Oh, surely I may ! My 
poor Cyril ! It would be too appalling ! ” 

“ It would, indeed,” said Cathie, demurely. 

“ I believe we understand each other, — I believe 
I can trust you.” 

“I believe you can.” 

"I believe it is only the poor misguided boy.” 

“I believe it is.” 

“My dear, can you forgive me?” 

“I believe I can.” 

“ It would be so dreadful ! ” 

“ Oh, it would ! ” said Cathie, quite shocked. 

“In this neighbourhood, I mean.” 

“To be sure.” 

“ I believe you are a good, honest, sweet girl ! ” 

“Since I don’t love Mr Wain — to be sure I 
am. And precisely the reverse if I did ! ” 

“ My dear,” cried Lady Gamble, delightedly, “ tell 
me, now, who are your parents ? ” 

“ Mr and Mrs Tythycott. Of origin unknown, 
but doubtless honest.” 

Lady Gamble threw up her hands. 

“ Oh, you’re delightful ! ” she cried. “ Only 
promise you’ll never speak of this to a soul.” 

“Never!” answered Catherine. 

Lady Gamble came in late for luncheon. Cyril 
was waiting for her in the library, and wondering 
how soon after lunch he might venture to call at 
the schoolhouse. 


332 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“My dear,” she cried, gleefully, drawing off her 
gloves, “ I have proposed for you, and you’ve 
been refused.” 

“Been refused! Where? How do you mean?” 
cried Cyril, turning into pink and white patches. 

“ Why, to that girl — you know ! And she won’t 
have you — won’t have you. Won’t have you — not 
at any price!” 

“ But how did you know ? I mean, what busi- 
ness I beg your pardon ; but surely it was 

my place to propose?” 

“My dear, it’s anybody’s place who can get in 
first. Besides, never mind whose place it was — 
you’re saved.” 

“She did not like the idea?” said Cyril, trying 
to control his voice. 

“Like it! She positively ridiculed it,” replied 
his aunt, determining not to notice his agitation. 
“Oh, how thankful I was! I could have kissed 
her. What a poor foolish boy you were ! By 
the way, I hope I was right. I hope she spoke 
the truth, and really doesn’t care for you,” she 
finished, her face falling. 

“There’s not a doubt of that,” said Cyril, lean- 
ing his elbow on the mantelpiece and his head 
in his hand, and looking like a very bad sailor 
crossing a very rough sea. 

“ Ah, that’s right ! Now come in to lunch. It’s 
all waiting.” 


THE AWAKENING. 


333 


I don’t care for any lunch,” said Cyril. “ I've — 
I’ve an engagement.” 

“ Have you ? Well, I’m ravenous.” 

As she rose from a hearty meal she said to 
herself — 

“Poor boy! I daresay he feels it, though I 
was really so delighted myself that his view of 
the case never struck me. Well, well, we all get 
our fingers burnt more or less. Who's to say I 
didn’t in my young days?” 


CHAPTER LXV, 


The master’s bell rang violently. Pringwood an- 
swered it in haste. 

“Turn her out!” Lord Frobisher cried, as soon 
as the old man appeared. 

The old man looked round the room, in which 
evening had now cast dismal shadows. 

“Turn her out!” repeated his master. “She 
stands beside you. God in heaven, man, don’t 
you see her?” 

The old servant blinked, and into his heart 
sorrow entered. 

Forty years had he served Lord Frobisher, and 
never once, severe as the strain had often been, 
had he known his powerful mind to wander. 

“ Ees, sir ! ” he said ; and he made a pretence 
of carrying out the order. 

Lord Frobisher lay back on his pillows and 
began muttering to himself — 

“I always knew she’d come. I always felt it. 


THE AWAKENING. 


335 


All my life long I’ve had this before me. Now 
my peace of mind has gone for ever. She has 
come, she has come ! ” 

Repeating the last words over to himself again 
and again in accents of despair, he fell asleep. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 


Temple’s wedding-day was drawing near. Lord 
Frobisher had been failing much of late, and Mrs 
Clavers decided that the marriage might now 
take place without any indiscretion. 

The burden of the thought to Temple was 
almost intolerable. Still he faced it ; but the 
cruellest part of it all to him was, that he had 
made her to suffer. Yes, he was man enough to 
know he had treated her cruelly, and to suffer 
the pangs of bitter remorse in consequence. 

“What are you thinking of?” Elsie said one 
day when they were together. “Oh, such serious 
thoughts ! ” 

“Oh, nothing!” he said, trying to speak lightly. 

“But they must have been about something, 
dear,” said Elsie, with the air of a person who 
has made a shrewd observation. 

“Well, nothing that would interest you at any 
rate,” said Temple, smiling with an effort. 

“ But everything that interests you interests 
me,” she answered with tender affection. 


THE AWAKENIN^G. 


337 


He got up abruptly. 

“This wouldn’t any way,” he said with cheerful 
decision. “Take my word for it. Shall we stroll 
out? It’s so close indoors.” 

She linked her arm through his. 

“ I don’t want to know anything you would 
rather not tell me, dear,” she said, gently. “ Always 
remember that. You are free — absolutely free — 
always. A woman when she loves, you know, 
is just a well — ever so deep — you can’t get to the 
bottom of it. And she holds all the man she 
loves gives her to hold, and doesn’t grumble a 
bit even if it only comes half way up.” 

Temple cleared his throat. 

“And a man isn’t a bit like that,” he answered, 
still attempting to speak lightly ; “ he is like a 
cataract. He wants to tear up everything before 

him, and sometimes he tears up the wr ” He 

stopped abruptly. “The woman has hard work 
to keep pace with him,” he finished, putting his 
arm round her; “and very often when she does 
there’s no satisfaction in it.” 

“No satisfaction for the man do you mean?” 

“No, no; of course not — for the woman.” 

“If you think that, you can’t understand love a 
bit” 

“I understand it only too well,” he answered, 
abruptly. “ It is the most maddening, sweetly 
intoxicating, impossible thing in the world!” 

She looked at him with wide open eyes. 

Y 


338 


’POSTLE FARM. 


“ How different men and women are ! ” she said. 

Isn’t it funny they should get on together?” 

“ Oh, some women are very like men,” he said. 
“That is the perfection of a union — where they 
are alike enough to understand each other, and 
yet so different that they are a perpetual tonic 
to each other.” 

Elsie gave a little sigh. 

“ Don’t let us be metaphysical,” she said. “ Don’t 
let us analyse love.” 

“No ; you are quite right — we won’t.” 

“ How about that girl Cathie ? ” asked Elsie, after 
a pause. 

“Oh, Cathie,” said Temple, as if he had suddenly 
remembered her. “ I’m sure I don’t know.” Then, 
not quite liking to tell a lie to the woman who 
was to be his wife — for Temple had not yet quite 
reached the number who think wives are the very 
women one has to lie to — he checked himself “At 
least, yes, by the way. I saw her once after I 
came back.” 

All his nerves tingled at the recollection. The 
very sound of her name turned him giddy. 

“ Is she still anxious to learn ? ” 

Elsie had to repeat the question before he heard. 

“ I believe so. I only saw her accidentally.” 

“You know I never believed in her; her learning 
was merely a ruse. Isn’t she grateful for all you 
did for her?” 

“I don’t know,” ^aid Temple, The unconscious 


THE AWAKENING. 


339 


irony of the question affected him strongly. His 
voice shook. He turned aside on the pretence of 
lighting his pipe. 

Are you laughing about it ? ” asked Elsie, trying 
to see his face. “I have often. She was such a 
barefaced fraud.” 

“Laughing! God, no!” cried Temple, flinging 
the pipe from him in a moment of unconquerable 
passion: then facing her — “Never mention her 
name to me again ! It was a mistake — a bitter 
one — from first to last!” 

“ What, she turned out badly ? Well, you remem- 
ber, dear, my impression of her ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ And I was right ? ” 

“ I tell you I know nothing whatever of her, nor 
do I wish to. She has gone from the farm — that 
is all I can tell you.” 

Many and many a time had he climbed the slope 
in vain. 

“ Well, Pm glad she’s gone, any way,” said Elsie ; 
“ I do hate impostors.” 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


Early in the following spring Temple was sum- 
moned to Upcott suddenly. Lord Frobisher had 
been gradually declining in strength, and the end 
was thought to be not far off. 

shall never live in this cursed place,” said 
Temple, as he wandered aimlessly about the 
grounds, trying to keep his eyes from straying 
across to the old farmhouse. 

Within, the dying master raised himself on his 
elbow and called to his servant. 

“ Pringwood,” he said, hoarsely, she’s here again. 
What shall I do ? What shall I do ? ” 

''Bear it, my lord,” said the old servant — *'bear 
it like a man. She can’t harm you.” 

“ But I harmed her ! I harmed her ! ” he groaned, 
falling back upon his pillow. “ I need not have : 
that is what always hits so hard — I need not have. 
And yet I had the greater right to the greater part. 
What was she but an interloper? What was he 
but that? What right had he to marry, with one 
foot in the grave?” 


THE AWAKENING. 341 

He glared angrily at the old butler as he asked 
the question. 

None, sir — none ! ” the old man answered. 

“ It seemed such a simple thing to do,” continued 
the quavering voice. “ It was put in my way ! It 
was an unfair temptation! She was ill in bed; it 
was so simple to send the infected letter ; how was 
I to know for certain she’d catch it? She died; 
she might have died any way. But it was the will 
that killed me. Curse them for that will! Half 
his fortune. Damn his liberality ! And now the 
whole county will know. My name will stink. Can 
I get out of it, Pringwood ? No ? What a liar and 
a betrayer you have been to me ! But you think — 
you think — well, if there is a God, you think, do 
you. He’ll accept this restitution ? I shall be acknow- 
ledging my sin, shan’t I ? confess your sins, doesn’t 
it say somewhere? God, this horrible darkness! 
And in the flashes of light she comes ! Curse the 
Scotch blood that ran in my grandmother’s veins ! 
what a hell’s life it’s given me!” 

ft • • t • • • 

Cathie, before she could go back to London, 
found it would be necessary to call at Lord 
Frobisher’s for a little more ready money. She 
had been often — and she had never been in vain. 

She waited until Mrs Eliot had gone out to 
her choir practice ; then she went upstairs, and 
opened the oak chest she had brought with her 
from ’Postle Farm. She took from it the old 


342 


'POSTLE FARM. 


brown torn frock she had worn at her work on 
the farm in the days when Temple had first 
known her. She pinned it carefully where the 
buttons had come off, and throwing an old shawl 
over her head — the same she nad thrown off the 
night she startled Miss Scottie with her beauty — 
she stole softly down the garden path. 

The night was dark, and at the cross roads 
she hesitated. 

‘‘ It’s like as if I were afraid,” she murmured. 
“What is there to be afraid of? It’s the conven- 
tional London life and the crowds have made me 
afraid of my own shadow.” 

She walked on for some distance rapidly. As 
she passed the public - house the light from the 
window fell on her face, and a man sitting within 
saw it. Drinking his whisky at a draught, he 
threw down his coppers in payment and hurried out. 

“ Theer ’er goes now,” said Miah ; “ ’er as can 
dress like the betterment volk, a-clotheyed in rags 
an’ tatters ! ’Er be crazed ! Wull, I knowed it 
all along. I’ll ’ave my eye on ’er, zee if I don’t. 
If I could catch ’er out in’s dark an’ skeer ’er, or 
catch ’er keepin’ company an’ tell on ’er an’ mak’ 
’er tell me wheer ’er gets ’er money from ! My, 
if I only could! But ’er be that slipperified.” 

Once Cathie thought she heard a step behind 
her, and she paused ; but all was silent. 

“I am positively trembling,” she cried to her- 
self. “This is no ordinary nerves. There is 


THE AWAKENING. 


343 


something behind. What am I to do? I can’t 
take anybody with me, because no one must 
know. There’s one man would never tell.” She 
hesitated. “But I can’t go to he. I’ll go another 
night; perhaps I won’t feel like this then.” 

So she turned back by the field way, and Miah 
missed her. It was not destined that this ruffian 
should ever harm her. 

The next night Catherine started on the same 
errand. Two miles quick walking brought her 
to her destination. She rang the bell three times. 
These were Pringwood’s instructions to her. She 
was to ring the bell three times, and then hide 
in the bushes until he came out to her. Some- 
times Catherine revolted against this — but the 
money was useful. How could she learn with- 
out it? 

Catherine rang, and then she waited. So long 
was the old man - servant in coming, she was on 
the point of ringing again when the door opened 
and the lamp -light streamed out and glistened on 
the laurels. 

Then the old man came out with his shuffling 
step, and Catherine came forward to meet him. 

“Lord Frobisher’s dead,” he said, brokenly. 

“Ah! you are sorry,” said Catherine in quick 
sympathy. “You loved him.” 

“I loved un,” the old man said in a voice that 
trembled. “ I be sorry ; there ain’t no money 
this time. But keep heart in ’ee, missy.” 


344 


'POSTLE FARM. 


“ Yes,” said Cathie ; “ I will.” Though the dis- 
appointment was a sore one, she spoke with her 
usual courage. *‘And you keep cheerful, too.” 

She held out her hand to him. 

“You’ve always been kind to me since the day 
you came to market with Grandfer and bought 
me chocolates.” 

The old man sobbed. He grasped her hand 
again and again, and raised it to his lips as he 
murmured brokenly — 

“God bless ’ee, God bless ’ee! An* tak’ ’eart, 
missy, tak’ ’eart! An’, missy, remember I did 
things always the bes’ way I could. I loved ’is 
lordship, I loved un ! ” 

And Catherine turned and walked back the 
way she had come, but her tears were falling. 
There was nothing left now but poor Grandfer’s 
hard-earned savings. 

So absorbed was she in settling her plans for 
the future, that she re-entered the house without 
taking any precautions to avoid discovery. 

Instantly Mrs Eliot heard her unguarded foot- 
step and called from within — 

“Some one wishes to speak to you, dear.” 

And Catherine, with a strange tremor at her 
heart, pushed open the door and stood face to 
face — in her ragged gown and her faded shawl — 
with Temple. 

“Cathie!” he cried, springing towards her, while 
Mrs Eliot started to her feet with a movement 


THE AWAKENING. 


345 


of uncontrollable surprise. A strange drama was 
unrolling before her. “ Cathie,” he said again, 
speaking with strong agitation, but still control- 
ling himself, “I am disinherited! The money and 
the land are yours!” 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 


“ I DON’T understand,” said Elsie, slowly. 

It is plain enough,” said Mrs Clavers. “ He is 
disinherited.” 

*‘Yes,” repeated Temple, dully; “I am disin- 
herited.” 

*‘But why?” 

“He has left his money to the rightful heiress.” 

“ He has left his money to a peasant-girl, you say?” 

“ No, he has left it to his niece — his brother’s only 
child — Catherine Frobisher ! ” 

“You have been deceiving us all this while!” 
cried Mrs Clavers. “You must have known you 
could never inherit the property!” 

“ If it is your direct intention to insult me,” said 
Temple, “ the conversation can end.” 

Elsie threw herself upon his breast. 

“ Oh, do not listen to her ! ” she cried. “ Do not 
quarrel ! Money does not matter ! ” 

“ Let us understand it thoroughly,” said Mrs 
Clavers. “ Who is this girl ? Where has she been 
all the time?” 


THE AWAKENING. 


347 


“It was a case of foul play, and the old man 
called in a lawyer and made a confession on the 
last day of his life. He wished it to be known 
his brother’s wife died through his design. He 
sent her an infected letter, and she took scarlet 
fever and died. His brother’s child was given to 
his old man-servant to take to a convent, from 
whence, after a while, her fictitious death was re- 
ported. The old servant, however, suspicious of 
foul play, or probably a repentant accomplice — only, 
of course. Lord Frobisher would not inculpate him, 
and he has got off scot-free — anyway he didn’t take 
her to France — he took her to one of Lord Frobisher’s 
tenants, a cousin of his own, persuading him to give 
it out that the child was his granddaughter. He 
had a daughter who married a sailor, and they 
hatched up a story between them that the child 
was hers. She was brought up roughly on the 
farm. No one suspected her birth — but the two old 
men could not rest about it. It seemed terrible to 
them, I suppose, to doom the child to a rough life, 
when the blood of the Frobishers ran in her veins. 
Anyhow, they wrote to Lord Frobisher — or rather 
the old man at the farm did — and threatened to 
disclose everything unless Lord Frobisher provided 
the girl with money during his lifetime, and with 
his fortune when he died. And they left a state- 
ment of her birth in the hands of the family lawyer 
— but Lord Frobisher himself confessed it — so the 
girl has inherited all, and I — am penniless, except 


348 


’POSTLE FARM. 


for two hundred a -year, besides my own small 
fortune.” 

“ Then did the girl know too ? ” 

“ The girl knew nothing.” 

“ But how can this be proved ? ” 

“There is no one to dispute it.” 

“ What ! You have not the courage ! ” 

“ I have no doubt ! The girl has in her posses- 
sion one of the Frobisher heirlooms. It seems it 
was tied round her neck as a child, and she lost it, 
but she has found it since on the banks of the river 
Teel.” 

For a moment Mrs Clavers was silent. 

“You will understand, Elsie, I cannot let you 
marry a penniless adventurer!” she said at last; 
and with these words she left the room. She was 
bitterly humiliated at the turn things had taken. 

Temple stood on the hearthrug looking straight 
before him and frowning. He was thrusting the 
thought of Catherine away from him. 

Elsie stood timidly regarding him. Her bosom 
rose and fell rapidly ; her lips were parted. She 
wanted him so to turn to her, crying, “What is 
poverty to love ? Only stand by me 1 ” 

But he did not say it. He stood pale, with his 
lips compressed. All his energy was concentrated 
on the one supreme effort of keeping Catherine 
from his thoughts. To think of her would mean 
a madness — a fury; and the time was not yet. 
Elsie tried to read his face. Was it possible he 


THE AWAKENING. 


349 


was hurt because she did not speak, believing her 
silence was because she agreed with all her mother 
had said, and not because the beating of her heart 
was so passionate she dared not break the silence 
lest she should say more than was fitting ? 

Yes! he was hurt because she did not offer 
herself, though surely — surely he must know. The 
next moment she had sprung to his side, and was 
sobbing on his breast. 

“Oh, don^t doubt me, darling! You know no 
future is possible to me without you I ” 

Mechanically he put his arms round her. 

“ Have you thought what poverty means } ” 

“ I can bear it, — I can bear anything ! ” 

“ But your mother I — she will never consent.” 

“ I do not care ! I will not give you up ! ” 

“ I cannot ask you to do so much for me.” 

“ Oh, dearest ! you know love counts all as 
nothing ! ” 

He could urge nothing further. 

“ It is very brave of you,” he said, lamely. 

“Would you not do the same for me?” she 
whispered. 

“ I would do anything for the girl I loved ! ” he 
cried with sudden passion. “What would I not 
do?” 

He had turned from her abruptly, and was pacing 
the room. 

“ Oh, what have I done to deserve such love ! ” 
she sobbed. 


350 


'POSTLE FARM. 


He started. For the moment he had forgotten 
Elsie. 

“ Elsie, I cannot take you into grinding poverty ! ” 
he exclaimed. “ Even if I ” He stopped short. 

“Even if you didn’t love me. Ah, but you do; 
and you couldn’t be so cruel to me — or to yourself. 
I will make you such a good wife, — I will be so 
careful. I shall not care where I live, dear, or 
how hard I work, as long as I have you ! You 
were hurt — just at first — because I did not speak. 
But oh ! it wasn’t want of love, dear, that kept me 
silent.” 

She finished brokenly. 

He was fain to take her hands and press them 
between his own. 

“We belong to each other, dear, ever since that 
day long ago when you came across the lawn to 
meet me. You are so noble and so good, you 
want to spare me all poverty and pain. But oh ! 
these are nothing to me, so long as I have 
you ! ” 

He bowed his head in silence, and took the 
blow that love had dealt him. 

He must be good and true to her. Cathie had 
bidden him. He must follow in her footsteps, 
which were led by a heart so much nobler than 
his own. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


Catherine Frobisher entered the home that 
had come to her by right of descent. 

In the first mad excitement of the neighbour- 
hood, when stories even less desirable than the 
truth were being bandied from mouth to mouth, 
and even well-bred society forgot itself, Catherine 
had deemed it advisable to move quietly away 
until the first furore over her history had somewhat 
subsided. 

She went to London and spent a year in hard 
work, giving the finishing touches to an education 
the foundation of which had already been firmly 
laid. 

Then she came back to the walls that had shel- 
tered her ancestors for many a generation, and to 
the portraits, of whom the originals had helped 
each one to build her to the perfection of woman- 
hood. The last of her name, she seemed to have 
gathered all that was most worthy of perpetuation 
in her progenitors, and she stood the incarnation 
of all that a noble race should be. 


352 


'POSTLE FARM. 


From this old admiral she gained her courage 
and unflinching purpose, and from this gentle-eyed 
lady the womanly heart of pity ; from another her 
love of truth ; from a fourth her inward vision — 
step after step, line upon line. Of what service is 
long ancestry, if it has not perpetuated truth and 
virtue ? 

The people of the neighbourhood streamed in 
to call — for, even in this nineteenth century, what 
wins the heart like romance? 

And Lady Gamble said — 

“ My dear, I was very foolish to speak to you 
as I did about Cyril. It was very queer of me, 
too ; for I always declared you had good blood 
in your veins — only, unfortunately, our good blood 
doesn’t always run in legitimate channels.” 

One morning Catherine came down to break- 
fast, to find among her letters a handwriting that 
she knew. She turned a little pale, and laid it 
aside to read later. 

Her companion — an elderly, inoffensive person — 
sat at the head of the table serving coffee from a 
silver urn. 

Catherine pushed her letter a little farther away 
with a determined action, as if she were brushing 
the memory of the writer from her mind. She 
set herself to contemplate the schemes for the im- 
provement of her cottages and land that had been 
laid before her on the previous day. 


THE AWAKENING. 


353 


But after all, such things to a young and beauti- 
ful woman, however enthusiastic she may be, are 
but as the dry dust compared to the full tide of 
nature's design. For nature’s design, from the be- 
ginning of all things, was something more than this, 
and the normal woman knows it. 

Yet the other thought that pressed itself upon 
her, Catherine would not have. To keep her 
thoughts from wandering back to it, she began ex- 
pressing them aloud. The poor lady at the end 
of the table cleared her throat nervously, and 
nodded and murmured, trying at least to appear 
as though she kept pace with the active brain of 
her companion. 

“I am glad,” Catherine said, in that beautiful 
voice of hers that had caught the heart of Temple 
when it rolled out its wild Devonshire to him — “ I 
am glad I lived with the people for seventeen years 
of my life. Now I shall understand them as I never 
could have without it. After all, they are the true 
philosophers. The nothingness of life, its brevity, 
its merely prefatory character, is understood by 
them in a way our class never can understand. 

‘ Unto the poor,’ — some religious people patter out 
sentences that seem to point to understanding, but 
they don’t understand, really. They only repeat 
like parrots. Unto the poor only is the full 
meaning of the gospel realised, and the gospel is 
— Philosophy.” 

There was silence. The bright February sun- 
Z 


354 


’POSTLE FARM. 


shine flashed on the white cloth and massive silver ; 
a canary burst into sudden song ; the sunlight dulled 
the fire, and the embers fell together with a hollow 
sound. 

Catherine looked slowly round upon it all. The 
portraits on the wall, the handsome bronze orna- 
ments, the rich carpet, the heavy curtains, the 
luxurious chairs, — all hers. 

Then her eye wandered through the window, on 
to the old grey farm standing half-way up the 
grassy hillside. That was hers too. Once it had 
been hers in quite a different way — part of her 
life ; the breath she drew. 

On its scanty uplands her heart had learnt to 
love. And she wished it might come back to her 
— the beauty of those summer days. 

Then Catherine broke the seal of her letter and 
read it. It ran : — 

“Ever since we parted I have been in South 
Africa. Elsie would not marry me until she had her 
mother’s consent, and I daresay you know already 
Mrs Clavers is now dead. I wrote home asking 
Elsie to join me here, but her answer was she 
could not leave her father now that he was alone, 
and she set me free. Surely even your sense of 
honour will not affirm that I am not? I have 
tried to persuade Elsie, and have offered her father 
a home out here, but he says he is too old now 
to travel so far. Surely there is no man living 
who, under these circumstances, would hold him- 


THE AWAKENING. 


355 


self bound still ! If you do not want me to 
call and see you, write me by return. But, 
Cathie, it is not possible you have forgotten our 
past ! ” 

There had been no Sunday delivery, and it was 
now too late to write, even had she wished to. 

She sat, trying to realise it all; but it seemed 
like some far-off dream, — something, perhaps, that 
had happened to her in another world. She felt 
as if nothing could ever awaken her feelings and 
emotions again ; and very restlessly she passed the 
day, starting at every sound. 

They stood together in the great silent library, 
where but lately the dead man had stood trying 
to simulate the strength and gladness of his youth. 

She was very pale. Dark rings were under her 
eyes. She had thought the supreme moment of 
her life would be so different to this. 

“What is all this to me — the riches, the posi- 
tion ? ” she said at last, speaking in a low, agitated 
whisper. “What are they to me? Nothing, and 
worse than nothing — weights about my neck ! 
Oh!” she cried, passionately, “wouldn’t I rather 
be on the grassy hillside now, with you free to 
love me honourably.” She sank into a chair. She 
had never felt such utter despair. “ When you were 
free,” she finished, in a dull, passionless voice, “you 
could not love me honourably.” 

“ Cathie ! ” he cried, “ I have so often wanted to 


358 


’POSTLE FARM. 


had no answer to give. She turned again wearily 
and dropped her face upon her arm. 

Can’t you forgive me, Cathie?” he said, in a 
voice of strong emotion. 

He placed his hand over hers that lay listlessly 
on the polished table. 

“ I am not blaming you,” she said, very gently. 

I am only looking back and facing it all. Could 
you have loved me then, how different our positions 
to-day! And if I had been like some poor girls, 
how awful — oh, how awful ! — my condition to-day ! 
That is all. It only comes to us once in a life- 
time, perhaps, to see things as they are in all 
their luridness — in all their horrid possibilities. 
Forgive me for paining you ! ” 

She put out a hand half timid, half imploring. 

“You once said that— there was no forgiveness 
in love.” 

“In love — no — I spoke the truth.” 

“But you cannot forgive me now?” 

She was silent a moment, then — 

“ I have forgiven you — and — forgotten I ” 

There was absolute stillness. Only the wild 
beating of two hearts — the one that took the 
pain, the one that gave it. 

“Is there no particle of hope for me?” he 
cried at last ; and he caught her wrists and 
tried to force her hands from her face. 

With all the effort of her strong will she raised 
her head, and her despairing eyes looked into 


THE AWAKENING. 359 

his. And he read his answer in them, for they 
were the tomb of love. 

A minute later the heavy hall -door swung to 
behind him, closing the one and only chapter in 
his life that was written at once with the dust 
of hell and with the fire of heaven. 


THE END. 





mmM‘-'^^-'^^':'’“ : '' 'IfvV ? 


J 'TRi'l'' V.'.’ u -' »•'» » <■ ' ' S '' I ‘ ' 'i I 

•5^'* 'V ■'■ri ; i ‘ -- "■ ■■• -feiv' ■ ' 

' , ^*^-. w,' . .Vv&'X' 

. MilCA'vif :> 



(.*,» 


'«/*» ' *«i»‘. • .' I • 1 • I *^ ' ■ • ‘ '*1 li V I . 'J ■ .' 


h '. 


4.: ■.:■' ■ :.'.v 

T vfev' ' ' ■" '■■ ‘ ' ' > ' ■' 'i^V^’''' '■■ I'V' ''4 i ' 




' I • , , 


- '5!?^ . 


















5i4^=? 

— fMi W M ii I ■ ^Ml ^gPtr- 





l-T , / ^ .y Tw .T**. *Jk.^ 


’•r 


ir^ 






>’^' - 






j 5 *^ 


i 4 ' 


i ',,7 




^ r 


* 

X 


^2* 




^4 




tV 


■v 






w 


t - */x- I 








it*- 


•i 








l*«S ^ r r 


I - i 




-‘V. 


m€ 


r T*^' .* . i 




5- 


ni-v 


i' il 






ii '. \ • U t ■ '• 

jL'v-v4.i , .,-g" 




4 ‘T^ 


I ’"O 






i.- 


» fj 




iJl 


ir. 


T,w. -■ 


^ * 1 
•y i** 


-* ' t 


>'C .- v^* 


Ar 


T j'-ijw- ri? s 


t 




M ' 


■y; 






cT*^ 

? I ^ ^ 




i t ”'- 




^JS}r 4 ^ 






II 




^4 


Jfi 


■♦lii,''. V -/f v .! 

- ■ tv"' ■*>>■ 


!sr< 


t< 


< 4 










’*— ' 




;\ 


</ r 


a? 


*■ ‘ i” • 






•V 


,4 




/V. 




I -> 














f- 






It 




Iv 








J !>• 


:.5^ 


> 


\!*r- 


y t > 


.Hi 


\ 


n , 


s r 






<*v 




• I 


. 1 -« 




L . 


V:!rv. 


^r 


. 'r 






Ly# 


• I 


^ .*»- 


< Mk — * 


/'i't 


■^f’S 


.V: 


.S' 


L: ^ 


• ', I 






I ; 1^ 


^ v 




T« 






u* 


-*i 




' -' -S, 

rr^* h; 

T fi 

'■ 




a'M 


LI- 




•■'*' '-'• K 




r 4 








P^i .' 

■Mb ^jb 4 J 


.^ 4*1 


- , , rt j ^T~ 


:::> 


’ 4 ' 




t' -.• 


j ♦ 


• /• 


■ ' *r 

'*.«4' 

n L - 


• — y 


;c. 


* .# 


r.r, «, 






r. r 


-♦ _♦ 


’•} 


-V. r- •''‘- . , 

I ^ -f^- A ^ 


'..V^',- -::4 






s 


v> 




1 ^ * 


>» 

I t 



4 






